Martyr's Crown
by Cuckoo on a String
Summary: Enemies rise and allegiances shift, overshadowing the evolution of a mind. Hal would like to build a new life, but that's tricky with a villainous A.I. possessing her house and a certain, shiny assassin locked in orbit. Sequel to Sin Eater. Rated for language, violence, and some patented Stark humor. (Fan art cover by 7marbles)
1. Little White Lies

**Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. Nope, nope, nope! (If you get that reference, I will know which generation you belong to.)**

Chapter 1: Little White Lies

Hal tended to the map of Sharpie wrapping her body. Standing in front of the mirror, her work clothes piled at her feet, she examined herself.

Lines spiraled into shapes, carving books and stars spread under meaningless calligraphy. A constellation on her right hip was fading, but she didn't bother retracing it. All things had their time, and since she only had a certain amount of skin she could easily conceal in her day to day activities, the doodles were all doomed to be replaced. Eventually.

The little forest of pines climbing up her thigh still seemed right, but the black lines were turning a bit purple. Time for a touch-up. The permanent marker felt perfectly cool and solid in her grip, and the felt tip left a pleasant tickle in its wake.

Even after months in her new life, she had trouble reconciling the world she interacted with mentally from the one she occupied physically. Thoughts, dreams, actions. Sanity wasn't so great a challenge as it once was, but Hal suspected she'd never escape the more burdensome aspects of her "gifts." Art helped bridge the gap on good days. On bad days, she turned herself into art.

She had a lot of bad days.

Transformation was no easy thing. She had trouble deciding what parts of herself to keep and what was better left in the bunker's dustiest files.

Hal didn't cherish her early memories. White walls and warm rooms. Strangers' thoughts pouring from her mouth like vomit. Dreaming of James. Meeting him in the snow. Escape. Rescue. The cabin and the motel where her only friend and confidant abandoned her.

Still, she'd learned important lessons, even from her haziest memories. She knew how and when to lie. Words, clothes, make-up – she could use anything to deceive, thanks in part to Pepper's lessons and in part to YouTube. A little paint could erase a sleepless night. A bit of lipstick made her daring. And heaven knew a short skirt could help even the shakiest excuse pass without much notice.

Unfortunately, it was harder to lie about pain, especially the over-powering headaches brought on by crowds. So she avoided busy streets. Or slightly-larger-than-small towns.

It was good Stark knew that. She'd put herself in his hands, and even if he wasn't the most responsible man in the world, he did take care of the things he valued. Hal still wasn't sure if she rated above a 'thing' to him. He wanted to like her, but he couldn't quite make the commitment. But he'd found her a good job in small town in upstate New York where she couldn't get into too much trouble. He even arranged for her to live in an isolated farmhouse a couple miles out of town. While Hal would like to believe he had her comfort in mind, she knew her residence had more to do with the problems of securing an apartment with state of the art security systems.

She spent her days working in the labyrinthine bowls of the Stark Heritage Archives and her nights reading in her house, surrounded by her smothering security blanket. At least she had Jarvis. Sad as it was to admit, the AI was probably the closest thing she had to a regular friend. Sure, Pepper called from time to time, and Hal owed about half her wardrobe to the woman, but they didn't share secrets. They didn't have real conversations. Maybe one day Steve would be her friend, but that would take a lot of work, and Hal preferred to take that acquaintance slowly. Recently, they'd progressed past awkward small talk in favor of sarcasm and shallow teasing. There wasn't enough depth to their history yet to give the conversations any weight.

Speaking of which…

"Steve Rogers is on the line, Miss Hal. Shall I put the call on speaker?"

Hal capped her marker and grabbed the tunic and lounge pants she'd set aside for the evening. It wasn't a video call. She only had to deal with those on Mondays. It didn't matter how she looked. "Yes, please, Jarvis."

"Very good."

The line clicked and Jarvis' voice was replaced by Captain America's.

" _Hello?"_

"Hi, Rogers."

" _Good morning, Hal."_

"It's evening here, Rogers."

" _Oh, right. Sorry."_

"What country are you in? China? South Korea?"

" _You know I can't tell you that."_

"Yes, because as soon as I've milked you for information, I'm gonna go tell the Squirrel Militia. They will launch their acorn fleet from the west coast and attack within the hour. Damn fast, those squirrels."

" _I always thought chipmunks would be a greater threat. They rule the underground networks."_

"Sure. But they pay protection money to the moles, and you know it. In all seriousness, though, Jarvis is running this line. The fact that you can call me at all means your phone has passed Stark's endless security games. You could give me nuclear launch codes and it wouldn't matter."

" _Better safe than sorry."_

"Technically you could tell me and we'd both be safe, but you might be sorry."

He didn't bother continuing the debate. _"How's work?"_

"Treacherous. One of my coworkers almost squished me between the rolling shelves in the basement. I'm surprised my screams didn't make it across the ocean."

" _Huh. I wondered why the mirror shattered. Here I thought it was a sniper."_

"Making friends?"

" _I'm such a friendly guy. Everybody loves me."_

"Now you just sound like Stark."

" _God forbid. Hey, Wilson's here. We might be out of touch for a while, and he wanted to take the opportunity to have Monday's session ahead of schedule."_

"Fine. But no video. I didn't put on any make-up after my shower."

" _Whatever makes you comfortable. Here he is."_

"Hey, Sam."

" _Hey, Hal. Been out of the house this week?"_

"Yeah. Every day."

" _For something other than work?"_

"Definitely."

" _Been past the mailbox?"_

"The mailbox and I have a very convoluted relationship. Don't belittle our time together."

" _You know, it might be a good thing if you made friends with sentient beings."_

"You and Steve are my friends."

" _Barely, smart-ass. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you think of us that way, but I'm talking about people you trust. People you have lunch with."_

"I have lunch with my coworkers every day."

" _Come on, Hal."_

"When you find someone with common life experiences and the necessary clearance level for a good heart-to-heart, do share. Until then, please knock it off. I'm doing the best I can."

" _I'll lay off. I didn't mean to criticize. I'm sorry. But – you know we have a mutual acquaintance with some damn similar experiences…"_

Hal threw herself out of the conversation. "The kettle's whistling. Gotta go."

" _Hal…"_

"Talk to you next week. Bye."

She hung up before he could say something annoyingly honest.

The conversation was at an end. And that was that. None of them dared discuss anything that mattered. For matters of security. For matters of comfort. For matters of survival. They never, for instance, discussed the dead Hal and her connection to the two soldiers. They certainly never discussed _the_ Soldier. Steve tried once. Hal shut him down before he could finish the first ten syllables.

Every call, they played the same dance. Weave, touch, move on. Trust Sam to try waltzing to a foxtrot.

Jarvis, the century's answer to Jimmy the Cricket, chose that moment to correct her. "Miss Hal, the kettle is in the sink. Are you feeling well?"

"I'm fine, Jarvis. It was a little white lie is all."

"Very well. Would you like me to rate your interaction?"

It was a learning game she'd invented before she even left Stark's tower. Whenever Hal tried to interact with other people as a normal human being, she had Jarvis rate her performance. It was like having her private theatre critic.

"Go ahead."

"A solid four out of ten."

"Shut-up, Jarvis."

"Very good, Miss Hal."

.O.O.O.

Silence was his greatest enemy.

Well, at least "companionable" silence.

It wasn't that he needed words, not even background noise from the street. But here, his closest allies sat around him, expecting him to relax. To enjoy the calm. The trusting bond they shared ought to have been a relief from the chaotic violence of their latest mission. But his mind swam with adrenaline, shivering with frigid delight as the Soldier recalled the battle. He analyzed his performance, considered how he could have made the Hydra agents' deaths slower, more painful. How he could have spared them any pain at all. If he'd found the base alone, if Steve and Falcon hadn't called him as back-up, would he have bothered with prisoners at all? His thoughts felt dirty, utterly inappropriate for Steve's living room, where the three men sat, talking about future missions and their dinner plans in the same breath.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

Even now, years after he'd reclaimed his freedom, he half expected his handlers to appear and put him back in the chair. Wipe his memory. Lock him in the freezer until the next time someone needed to die.

James Buchanan Barnes – the Winter Soldier – sat tense, practically at attention, failing to imitate Sam Wilson's easy posture. The Falcon lounged on a couch, one ankle bent over the opposite knee, arm hung along the back of the sofa. Strange to think they'd tried to kill each other. Stranger to think Barnes had almost succeeded. Sometimes he wondered if Steve would've been able to forgive him if he'd eliminated Wilson. It would've been difficult. Although Steve knew about the blood on his old friend's hands, he'd never lost someone he loved to the Winter Soldier's rifle, never felt the empty helplessness of grief when the Soldier pulled a knife across a friend's throat. Steve almost lost Fury, but he _hadn't_. James told himself it wouldn't have mattered, but he couldn't help wondering. His redemption had grown from fire, smoke, and a living library. His mind rested on the edge of a blade as he tried to rediscover his past and march into the future. Fortunately, he'd tipped off the point into the safe arms of people who cared about his recovery.

He didn't dare call Wilson a friend yet. But he knew Steve was, and always would be.

Steeling himself, James folded his back to meet the curve of Steve's armchair. Judging from Wilson's expression, his attempt at relaxation was less than successful.

Steve walked in with three beers dangling from his grasp. "There's a great little deli on the block who delivers. Thought I could call in if we're all – uh –" He sputtered when he met James' baleful look, and Steve failed to hide his grin. Captain America cleared his throat. "If we're all ready to eat something?"

"Sure." Wilson wasted no time excusing himself from the awkward situation, springing across the room to look at the menu tucked between the beers. "What have they got? No corn beef. I don't care how traditional it is. I'd like to kiss a girl sometime this century."

"I ate it all the time as a kid," Steve said, somewhere between patronizing and offended.

Sam gave him a look. "I rest my case. Where's your phone? I'll call it in."

"I don't think we're ready."

"Well, _get_ ready. I'm starving."

Squabbling, the two men worked their way into the kitchen, leaving James with a blissful moment of quiet. His eyes roved the apartment as he grounded himself in the details. In the corner, a record player. On the back of the couch, an afghan. Quiet colors and simple shapes – flotsam of a time gone by. And so quintessentially Steve. James missed the years Hydra had stolen from him, but not in the same way Steve did. Steve fell asleep and woke up the same man. It was the world around him that had changed, that had changed him. James napped through the better part of a century, changing with the world Hydra used him to influence. It was difficult to pine after an old way of life when he struggled daily with something far more basic.

He reached for one of the beers, forgotten in the bickering, and smiled when the frosty condensation licked his fingers. A year ago, such a sensation could've thrown him into a flashback. He was still learning how to incorporate the good parts of the world into his life, but just cutting out a few of the bad things felt good.

Steve's sketchbook sat on the end table beside the other two beers. James couldn't tell if it was an oversight or an invitation. Memories surfaced, distorted by time like water over photographs, but the feelings were clear, even if the images weren't. Steve sketching – Bucky watching, amused, happy, quiet inside.

He had the sketchbook in his hands before he realized he'd reached for it. The pages turned noiselessly, made soft by frequent attention. Faces appeared, vanished, merged into new expressions. James marveled at his friend's talent. He'd seen art, but it took something special to evoke the same sensations he experienced when he put his hands to a piano's keys. The people in Steve's sketches had expressions beyond realism, a sort of truth that echoed in his own passions. He knew a few of the people in the sketches, but he didn't stop until he turned a page and suddenly _she_ was there.

Steve must have drawn the image during the interim between her rescue and the conversation when he gave her the video file. She wore the cuts and bruises the Soldier had given her without shame. Her pain was deeper. She'd lost her faith. The little hell he'd put her through had been nothing compared with the acid former Director Fury had tossed on the roots of her life purpose.

"Bucky?"

He snapped to attention. Steve stood in the doorway, holding a phone as he waited for his friend's order. Judging by his expression, though, take-out just slipped Captain America's mind. Steve glanced between Bucky's eyes and hands, trying to read the image through the folded pages. It didn't take a genius to guess which image had arrested James' attention, though.

"You okay, Buck?" Steve asked slowly.

Bucky dropped the sketchbook back on the table too quickly, folding his hands in his lap. "Fine."

Sam came back into the room and instantly assessed the tension. His eyes hit the three crucial points (Steve, Bucky, the sketchbook), and he took a seat on the ottoman in the middle of the room. Steve sat at the end of the couch nearest Bucky's chair. The comfort in the room had vanished. Awkwardness embraced them. Bucky sat with his friends, unsure of himself, knowing they were unsure of him. Or at least his stability.

Steve cleared his throat and cracked open the second beer. "She's, ah, she's doing well. Got a job and everything." He handed the third beer to Sam.

Bucky frowned. "You're still in contact with her?" When Steve confessed to losing her – letting her slip out the back and wander defenseless through New York City – Bucky had an opportunity to test his fledging control. It held. Steve assured him that Hal was safe and under the dubious supervision of Howard Stark's son. Steve trusted the guy, though, and Bucky told himself that that was enough for him. So he didn't ask questions. Didn't pursue the matter. He'd been under the impression, though, that Hal had left their circle entirely.

"Just about every week." Sam took a long drink of his beer. "Called while we were in Korea, actually." Bucky sat, gobsmacked, while Sam raised his eyebrows under Steve's disapproving look. "What? I'm not gonna lie about it."

"Sam is helping her with some therapy," Steve rushed to explain. "And I thought it would be smart to keep in touch."

"Therapy?" Bucky could feel his face pulling into a frown. "What's wrong?"

"Not my place to share details," Sam said, "but living with other people is hard enough when you can't see inside their heads. We're just helping her find her feet."

Bucky reminded himself that, once upon a time, he'd left Hal for just this reason. He wanted her to have someone like Wilson in her life, someone who could help her adjust to a normal existence. So she had a job? Regular therapy sessions? Good. Great. Excellent.

Too bad he couldn't enjoy it.

He grabbed his beer, put it to his lips, and swallowed the contents in one breath. The empty bottle clapped against the end table, just inches from the sketchbook, ringing like the world's least effective meditation chime.

"Good for her."

.O.O.O.

"You up for drinks tonight?"

Hal pretended to start. Pretended to smile. Her coworker stood beside her, smiling at his own stealth. She'd heard his thoughts all day, his steps the moment he emerged from the creaky stairwell door. It took so much more to surprise her.

"I already made some pretty serious plans with a bottle of cheap wine and _Sense 8_ , actually. If I don't watch it soon Becky will just spoil the whole thing and there won't be a point."

Her coworker, Chris, continued to press. "Far be it from me to mess with a Netflix binge, but you used that excuse last time, and now I have to ask if you and Netflix are going steady."

Giving up on the folder she'd been trying to find, Hal closed the steel draw and brushed the dust off her hands. "Not the same excuse. Last time was Kraken rum and a Hulu _Blacklist_ marathon. Not the same at all."

Chris looked at her seriously. "Does Netflix know you're two-timing?"

Hal shrugged. "We have an open relationship."

"Whatever," Chris laughed. "Seriously, though. Drinks. Becky said she won't go out unless you join us this time. And you know how I feel about Becky."

Nodding, Hal gathered the outdated files she _had_ succeeded in locating and made for the stairs. "Everyone knows how you feel about Becky. Especially Becky. You should call her on her bluff. She's so sweet on you it makes my teeth hurt when she reapplies her damn chapstick."

"Watermelon flavored." Chris nodded sagely. "She knows how much I like to –"

"If you drop the topic right this second I promise to come out for drinks."

All smiles, Chris bounced after her. "No problem." He swung in front of her and slid down the banister. Unfortunately, even though he'd stopped talking about all the reasons he liked Becky's watermelon lip balm, he kept thinking about them, and Hal took her time following down the stairs, counting each step, finding the correlating letter of the alphabet, and considering stars starting with each letter. Two, B, Betelgeuse. Three, C, Castor. Four, D…

 _Should we park somewhere? Nah. Just watched_ The Town That Feared Sundown _. Not a great way to set the mood. Oh, man, I wanna French again, though…_

This was why Hal did not go out for drinks. Besides making awkward segues to avoid topics like family and past jobs, she had to lie about her life and opinions beyond anything but pop culture and the universal hatred of the Eternal Dust at work. Add to that imaginations like Chris's, and she had more than enough reasons to avoid socializing. It was too bad she worked with good people who gave a crap. If the Stark Heritage Archives hadn't been located in such a small town, Hal doubted her coworkers would have noticed or cared about her absence. As it was, their numbers were few, and shits were given.

At least it was Friday.

"You've gotta be kidding me!" Even with the door shut, Becky's voice reverberated through the stairwell. " _Seriously?_ "

Chris popped through to see what had upset his almost-girlfriend, and Hal followed, a few grudging steps behind. Becky stood at the main desk where visiting researchers would come for requests and directions – if the Archives ever had any visiting researchers. Pretty much everything of value had been donated to the New York City Public Library System as the first of several "gifts" from Stark Industries. The Archive's remaining files were old family letters no one (descendants included) cared to worry with, newspaper clippings announcing literally every machine Stark Industries had ever patented, and several metric tons of old _National Geographic_ issues. Well, maybe the stacks of magazines in the lowest level weren't all Nat Geo. But the first few layers definitely were, and no one dared risk an avalanche by plowing any deeper.

The main desk had become the place whence sad emails to the higher-ups were sent (pleading for fresh materials and purpose) and the occasional tourist was redirected. Front desk job was easy. Everyone fought over desk duty. Except Becky. Becky was cursed.

"Trouble?" Hal asked.

"It's Mr. Abrahms. Again." Becky shut down the computer as she talked, slamming the keys with passion. "He wants a copy of _Fifty Shades of Grey_. I told him we weren't that kind of library, but he kept insisting. He left a formal request to get the book transferred in, but we aren't part of any lending networks. No one wants our shit. I tried to tell him, but he said he was going to lodge a complaint."

Chris laughed, stepping up behind Becky to rub her shoulders. Becky defusing was his specialty in the Archive. "With who, Tony Stark? Guy only remembers this place exists when someone in middle management tries to pull strings getting their kid a job. No knows if it's a favor or a cautionary tale for all other parents in Stark Industries."

"Do you know how far it is to Manhattan?" Becky growled. "Trust me, this is a cautionary tale. All we need to complete it is some cannibal redneck with a chainsaw."

"How does he always know when you're working the desk?" Harlan wondered, emerging from the coat room with his lunch bag. "Today I got to work upstairs, but yesterday _I_ manned the desk. Monday Hal has it. It's not like he peeps through the doors. Do you think he has binoculars?"

"Maybe he's memorized the schedule," Hal suggested. "I'll handle the desk Tuesday. If he comes in, we'll know that's it. If he doesn't, my money is on binoculars."

Becky, relieved to have put off the inevitable confrontation for an even later date, rolled her shoulders, dislodging Chris. She stabbed a finger at Hal. "You are coming to drinks with us. Did Chris tell you?"

"Yeah. I got that memo."

"Excellent. Three hours hence, we shall rejoin our forces and descend on _Pine Stand Bar_. Over and out." Snatching up her purse from behind the desk, she marched out the front door.

Hal followed her example and made tracks. Chris would lock up for the day, leaving everyone else to begin the long drive home. Hal couldn't sense any cops watching the back road she took to her oversized farmhouse. So she threw caution to the wind and pretended the numbers on the speed limit had been printed backwards. 35? Nah. Must be a mistake.

The silence comforted her. No thoughts, no voices, only the giddy crackle of adrenaline as she took the corners just a little too quickly. After a day locked inside a Cold War era bunker trying to masquerade as a library, the fresh air felt wonderful. Hal left her windows down and the radio off, happy to be alone. She was home before she knew it, and her quiet time came to an immediate end.

"Welcome home, Miss Hal. Did your supervisor send you home from work early?"

Jarvis never criticized her directly, but he gave many passive-aggressive hints. Hal couldn't remember her mother. She figured she didn't need to. She had Jarvis instead.

"Anything exciting happen while I was gone?" No point telling him she'd shattered the speed limit. It wasn't like he didn't know. If Hal knew Stark at all, there were at least five remote transmitters hiding in her car. If he wanted to, the man could find out what radio station she preferred.

"Not precisely. However, you have a message from Agent Romanoff. Shall I play it for you?"

"Later. I'm going back out soon."

"Very good, Miss Hal."

She took her time. In the shower, she wasted nearly half an hour just standing under the water, imagining rain and a glassy sea. Her worries sloughed off with the day's grime, pulled away as Hal built a superior world in her own mind. The water built a connection, and for precious moment, she could ignore the border between the realities of mind and body. She breathed the warm mist of her vision, reaching to pull the sun from the horizon. Her hand clapped against shower tiles, and reality cracked in half. The way it was supposed to be. She left the shower feeling worse than when she'd gone in.

Two hours spun by, and Hal made her way back to the front door. She'd considered the role she was to play and costumed herself appropriately. Low heels, obvious make-up, fit-and-flare dress. A single archivist at her finest. Her hand found the knob.

Then she remembered.

"What was Natasha's message?"

"Shall I play it for you now, or would you like me to paraphrase?"

"Play it, please."

Natasha's voice filled the room. _"Hey. Great job with the senator last week. We've followed up the leads you gave us, and we might have found something big. But we need to be sure before we pull the trigger. Clint will be by tomorrow to pick you up. Sorry I can't tag along, but I'm hunting down some loose ends. It's an easy mission, though. Street attire. Casual. Just pass and grab. You'll be back in plenty of time for your Monday shift, so you don't need to spin anything for your cover. Take care of yourself. See you soon."_

So much for the Netflix binge.

"Thanks, Jarvis. I'm heading out."

"Very good, Miss Hal."

Instead of speeding back into town, Hal deducted five miles from the speed limit and inched along slow enough to earn the wrath of several motorists. After the third car passed (with a honk and a single-finger-salute), she brought the vehicle up to speed. Even now, safe in her dusty cover, her instincts demanded she hide. She shouldn't draw attention. She shouldn't exceed expectations, but neither should she fail to meet them. Chances were, the other drivers were tourists passing through on their way to somewhere nicer, but all it would take was one local getting up in her business to bring her paltry independence to an end.

She and Stark had an understanding. He didn't get worried - she got to live in the big, bad world. A little paranoia, though, and Hal could find herself suddenly uprooted. Not that she had roots. But no one in town knew that, and Hal enjoyed knowing more about herself than anyone else in a twenty mile radius.

It was a rare pleasure.

.O.O.O.

Hal came home four hours later. She wanted to drink the entire bottle of wine she'd been saving, but a hang-over would only compound the ache of a public setting during her upcoming mission.

It felt like she'd earned it, though.

The night out had gone as planned.

" _We're worried about you, Hal."_

You'd be more worried if you knew what I do on the weekends.

" _Really, though, what do you do when you're not at work?"_

Read the minds of war criminals and political leaders, looking for Hydra cells. Like a real spy, but with cheats enabled.

" _I have family in the city. Do you have family in the city? We should carpool sometime."_

I don't know if I have family. I know folks in the city, though. They send unmarked cars when they need me. So carpooling is out.

While her coworkers enjoyed a quiet evening of gossip and appetizers, Hal had trouble swallowing past all the lies she had to vomit on command. The wall she had to build around herself kept her safe, but it also kept her alone. In many ways, her coworkers felt less like friends than strangers Hal passed on the street. She brushed strangers' minds and enjoyed a glimpse of their existence. It was temporary. No expectations. No questions. Hal had learned to accept it as people-watching. With her coworkers, she had conversations; she kept their secrets, but she couldn't answer their questions, couldn't offer her own confidence. They offered her things she couldn't return.

It made her feel so dirty she had to take another shower.

She stumbled into bed after she bathed, too exhausted to drink.

After a day stalking a Hydra agent, she'd probably need it later, anyway.

 **A/N: So, something is wrong with the website. If you tried to review the last Interlude at the end of _Sin Eater_ , I thank you. However, it didn't come through. Effectively I've been wringing my hands for the past week going "OMG! I DONE GOOFED! ZE READERS NO LIKE! NO LIKE AT ALL! AWWWW SHIIIITTTTT." Since I can't get to the stats section of my profile, however, I am reassuring myself that it is an error with the website (denial - ain't it loverly?). **

**Look for weekly updates! I will update regardless of review count, however if my muse goes super charged, there may be bonus chapters here and there (and we all know how to super charge the muse, don't we?). The length of the fic will also probably depend on reader interest, because I can go on forever, but I am managing so many projects, I don't want to dedicate a lot of time to a story that has lost its audience. Capiche?**

 **And now... ON WITH THE ADVENTURE!**

 **(Cuckoo may or may not have consumed too much caffeine and apologizes profusely for her excess of caps.)**


	2. Turn of the Carousel

**Disclaimer: If you look in my nifty drawer of keepsakes you'll see some pretty awesome crap. Nothin' from Marvel, though. Nothin'. There's a stray telepath in there somewhere, though...**

 **Chapter 2: A Turn of the Carousel**

"Maybe you should get a dog."

Hal pulled her face off the window to blink at Barton. He'd picked her up just after sunrise. Sacrilege, considering it was Saturday. She hadn't quite consigned herself to being awake yet. Unfortunately, shortly after getting in the car, she'd muttered some very grumpy things about her night out, and now Barton was trying to have a conversation.

"What?"

"A dog." His eyes didn't leave the road, but Hal could feel the effort he was making. "Since you have trouble making friends."

"I don't have trouble making friends," Hal grumbled. "I have trouble being honest."

"Whatever. Dogs are better than friends."

"Says the Avenger."

"Yeah. So I should know, right?"

"If you say so."

Barton spared a glance at his listless passenger before refocusing on the road. "Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

Hal made a noncommittal grunt, but she couldn't disagree.

She was so tired, and not just from her coworkers and their questions. Her lies never faded, and she wore each one on her shoulders, like Santa's sack filled with guilt. The nagging pressure on her conscious would drive her crazy one day. When she told Stark she wanted to be useful, this wasn't quite what she had in mind.

She hadn't had anything in mind.

She hadn't known enough about the world.

Would she ever?

Barton didn't try to break the silence until they reached the city. Even after the string of disasters that struck the East Coast, metropolises like New York City had bounced back, remaining hubs of commerce and intrigue. Despite that, the worst-affected areas became breeding grounds for organizations like Hydra, who preyed on those too broken to easily differentiate between survival and savagery. The slums were infected with mafias – new and old. They made wonderful errand boys for the uptown businessmen under Hydra's thumb. According to the file in Hal's lap, one such lackey had been the illuminating link between the senator Hal stalked the week before and the tycoon she would shadow today.

She studied her target's picture, guessing at the mind she'd find beneath the comb-over.

Barton swerved out of traffic and nodded toward Hal's door. They looked together at the gate leading into Central Park.

"This is it. You ready?"

"Oh, I love a nice stroll through the park on Saturdays." Hal popped open her door and dropped the folder on her seat. She snatched a droopy cabby hat from where it waited patiently on the dashboard. It was several sizes too large, but it hung over her head with a kind of boho flair, and if she kept her head down the brim did a good job masking at least half of her face.

"I'll be watching. See you at the rendezvous point."

"See you."

She hurried into the park, eager to finish her assignment. The pressure of New York City squeezed around her skull like a vice, and it didn't take long for the ache to spread to the rest of her body. Everything clenched as she subconsciously tried to fight off the invading waves of _people_. Memories. Questions. Ideas. Observations. Curses. Laughter. Hal felt like the excess thoughts must be pouring out of her like mucus. Oozing out of her nose, eyes, ears, mouth. So thick she could choke.

Focus, damn it.

Hal lied to herself, trying to quarantine the pain like it didn't go on forever. No one could function with such a distraction. So she lied. She imagined she was back in the white room with the chair waiting for her to fail. If she tried, she could even smell the antiseptic they used to clean the floors.

Complete the mission. Then she'd be free of the room.

It made her sick, but it worked. Her survival instincts were strong, and even an imaginary tease brought her determination to life.

She hadn't told anyone about this little trick. Particularly Sam, her self-acclaimed therapist. So many feathers would get ruffled. So many feathers. Best to avoid the pointless squawking. It wasn't like this was something anyone could fix.

Green trees blocked out the sun, and Hal paused in the stream of foot traffic as she spied her target. He sat at a table, reading a newspaper.

Did business tycoons actually read newspapers? Everyone Hal knew got their news online. Billionaire-Playboy-Philanthropist included. Instinct told her to be careful even as his thoughts wafted into her mind.

He was meeting someone.

So much for grab and go. She had to stick around. This could be big.

Casting about for something to keep her hands busy, she wandered over to the little barista cart which had, apparently, provided the tables. Coffee. Coffee was good. No one would question a grumpy-faced woman drinking coffee in the park, bracing herself for some overtime on a Saturday…

She wasted as much time as she could rummaging through her pockets, not quite making a show of hunting for money, but stalling for a precious few seconds before she approached the cart.

"A red-eye, please. Leave room for enough cream and sugar to induce diabetic shock."

The barista chortled, trying to be polite even though he probably didn't catch the end of her order - he filled her cup to the top. Hal frowned as she scooted to the fixings table. It was going to be one of those days. It already was. Saving the wine had been the right choice. She would definitely need it when she got home.

As she sipped her coffee, trying to make room for her condiments, she rummaged through her target's head. He'd chosen the far table, tucked neatly away from the busiest part of the path and well away from anyone who might overhear him. Well, physically overhear him. Telepaths weren't quite a thing in general threat analysis yet. Soon, that would change, which was why Natasha and Stark sent Hal on so many missions. Her value in this area was limited. She had a shelf life, and no one was quite sure when she would expire.

Still, hauls like this made up for any future inadequacies. Her target knew of several previously undiscovered nests, had a list of five high ranking contacts, and even had his eye on several of Hydra's local targets. Hal didn't have to think about memorizing the information. It sank into her brain effortlessly, waiting to be sorted when she next slept.

If she didn't organize her memories, they would swamp her. So she worked, even when she was unconscious, struggling to keep herself under control.

Tourists and locals poured around the coffee cart, unaware of how close they came to a monster. No one suspected. No one even worried. The slightest hints of everyday paranoia were tossed at the racial minorities spread through the crowd. Appearances had nothing to do with evil. No one would have pointed out the smiling businessman with his neat suit and old fashioned newspaper. Even if he did strike Hal as something out of a spy novel.

Hal dumped sugar into her drink and continued sipping. She still didn't have enough room for creamer.

Another man approached the lone reader, and Hal narrowed in on his mind. It was crammed with plans. Observations. Tactics. Clever as he was, though, he hadn't the faintest suspicion that the girl fussing with the sugar was eavesdropping through his brain.

The newcomer cut straight to the point. "We need more money. The item is yielding even more than we expected. The doctor needs more equipment."

"Money doesn't grow on trees," the businessman said mildly, folding his paper. "Of course, that's what fundraisers are for. I expect my efforts to reap the appropriate rewards."

"Naturally. Send the money through the usual channels."

Hal sped through the stranger's mind, absorbing "the usual channels," the coordinates of the lab in need of funding, and even the item under examination.

Loki's scepter.

A relic of a battle before Hal's time, but she knew the name, knew the power it wielded.

She grabbed a few more details from the Hydra agent's mind as he slipped away from his contact and rejoined the crowd, but she was preoccupied with her findings.

It didn't matter if she had a shelf life. This was the mother of all discoveries.

For the sake of appearances, she continued drinking her coffee until she had room for creamer, then she topped up and took off. Her head full of discoveries, she didn't realize she was being followed until she'd left the park. Her extraction point was still a block away, but she doubted Barton had gone ahead. He liked to hang back, keeping an eye on things just out of her range. In a city like New York, she could pick up thoughts from well over a block away, but with so many heads spewing so much information, it was impossible to track of an individual from such a distance. The only reason she picked out her stalker was because he followed her into an alleyway.

The volume of a person's thoughts magnified with physical proximity. Hal didn't take the time to sift through history and names. She only felt him there, cold and dark. Through his eyes, she watched herself pick up the pace. He matched her. And that was all she needed.

Spinning on her heel, she flipped a knife out of her sleeve and dropped into a defensive stance. Although she could hold her own against lesser agents, and even a handful of poorly trained mercenaries, she knew full well she couldn't protect herself from an agent capable and confident enough to spot and follow her on such a mission. Even though Widow wasn't present, the set up and been her idea. Only professionals got past the Black Widow. Hal couldn't go toe to toe with a professional.

Hopefully Clint was feeling paranoid and hadn't gone ahead to the rendezvous point.

Hal kept her face down, partially shielded. It was an uncomfortable fact of her life that more people recognized her than she remembered meeting. Instead of examining her stalker's face, she glared at the center of his chest, waiting for the first sign of action. Eyes were a better indicator, but that was a two-way street.

The man moved.

Professional couldn't express his speed. His grace. A nimble feint, and then he swung around for a real charge.

The yards between them disappeared in the blink of an eye, and in that same blink, Hal glared into her opponent's mind.

She expected a battle plan. She found several. And she found a name that left her flatfooted. The name replaced her fight or flight instincts. She opened her mouth to speak just as the man slammed into her, sending her to the ground with his knee in her chest, his hand on her throat.

His whirring, mechanical hand.

Her head smacked the pavement, and she couldn't do anything but marvel at the pretty, pretty stars for a moment. When her eyes cleared, she found herself face to face with a somewhat terrified James Barnes.

He recognized her.

The cabby hat must have taken a detour on the way down.

Her coworkers worried about running into exes as the club or the grocery store. But, nah, being thrown to the ground by your frenemy-dream-time-buddy was a good ice-breaker. Screw tradition.

She must have a concussion.

Everything felt faint and cold. Hal could smell pine, taste ice on her tongue, even though she thought she might actually be tasting her own blood. It wouldn't be the first she bit her lip.

As the shock ebbed away, she came back to herself and felt a spike of pain jamming through the back of her skull. But, hey, maybe it was nothing. She'd had such great luck lately.

At least paranoia had its uses. Concern, sharp but distant, churned through Hal's mind. Hawkeye knew something had gone wrong. Reaching toward his mind, she nudged an image into the background of his thoughts – the alley, Barnes' face, enough to keep him from shooting on sight.

Two immediate problems, however, demanded Hal's attention. The Winter Soldier's knee made breathing a little painful, and the hand on her neck didn't help the situation. Fortunately, he hadn't added any knives or guns to the equation.

Thinking of knives… The Winter Soldier had his free hand wrapped around her fist, pressing it and the knife she'd drawn flush against the ground. In this position, they could almost be dancing. Horizontally. Awkward. Hal squelched the urge to knee him in the groin, intent on keeping all of her limbs and the precious little air still going in and out of her lungs. A physical attack could incur an equally physical response. She'd never seen James so rattled, not outside of nightmares.

Was that how he saw her? A living, breathing nightmare?

Overkill.

She could be annoying, of course, unnerving even, but the Winter Soldier had never been afraid of her. Afraid for her, maybe, but that was a different problem.

Carefully, she slipped across the border into his mind, letting their thoughts mingle as she opened her mouth to speak.

"Hi," she croaked.

His eyes grew fractionally wider.

"You're heavy."

He sprang up, froze. Reached a hand down to help her up. Reconsidered. Froze again.

Hal quirked an eyebrow, smirking as she rose - unassisted. "Nice dance moves."

The corners of his mouth flinched. "What are you doing here?"

"You know, now that you mention it, I'd _really_ like to ask you the same question."

"I asked first."

A shadow dropped from the fire escape above and drew his bow. Hawkeye. "Who cares? It's two against one. What are you doing here?"

Even though he hadn't drawn a weapon on Hal, the Winter Soldier stood ready with a gun leveled at Barton's head.

Hal glanced at the Avenger. "Should I introduce you?"

Barton grunted. "I know who he is."

The Winter Soldier nodded. "Hawkeye. Steve's… friend."

Lifting a brow, Barton asked, "Why the hesitation?"

Barnes glowered and retreated into stony silence.

"Better question: why the weapons?" Hal clapped. "Seriously – down, boys. We're all on the same side."

The men lowered their weapons slower than Hal would have liked, and they'd almost assumed a veneer of civility when Captain America himself came barreling around the corner.

"Bucky, I lost track of…" His words stumbled to a stop with his feet. Eyes bouncing between Barnes and Barton as he lowered his hand from the comm. in his ear. Eventually, he fixed on Hal, recognizing her as the peacemaker in their predicament. "Hello, Hal. It's – uh – it's been a while."

She nodded. "Since I jumped out your bedroom window. Nice to see you in the flesh."

"I was under the impression Stark frowned on visitors. How are you here? With _Barton_?"

Barton opened his mouth, but Hal beat him to the punch. Neither Barnes nor Rogers would like her answers, but they'd take them better coming from her. "He isn't a visitor. We're getting intel. Haven't you wondered where all Stark's leads were coming from? Even he isn't that good."

Rogers went into full Captain America mode. "And you are?"

"Nah. Just telepathic. I walk by and get more information than Romanoff could squeeze from a target after a week alone with them. And the data isn't compromised, because there's no way Hydra can know we have it until we act on what we find. No missing personnel. No fussing with moles. Quick, clean, and relatively painless. Speaking of pain, could we please go home? I have a migraine trying to pop out of my skull like a chest popper from _Aliens_."

Barton absorbed the reference seamlessly. Barnes and Rogers did not. Vaguely horrified, their confusion popped in the air like angry little fireworks. Hal didn't even feel bad. Not about that, anyway. Her head did feel really, really bad, though. The migraine thing wasn't a lie, even if it did make for a convenient exit strategy.

And she still had to debrief.

Barton stepped up next to her, ready in case she needed physical support or a guiding hand on their way to the car. He didn't, to his credit, seem to notice or care about the ice cold glare the Winter Soldier sent his way.

"Romanoff, huh? So Natasha is one of your 'not visitors,' too," Steve said.

"Yeah." Rubbing her temples, Hal turned the tables. "Your turn. What are two upstanding citizens like yourselves doing in a back alley, hunting dames?"

Barnes went rigid, but Rogers answered easily enough. "Same as you. That is, if we were after the same Hydra agent. Sam got a tip from a kid working the ugly side of Hell's Kitchen that some business type was making serious deals under the table about laundering charity money."

Hal turned to laugh at Barnes. "So you decided to follow the girl getting coffee instead of the shady dude meeting with your target? That makes sense how?"

"You looked suspicious."

"That is the pot calling the kettle black." And it was true. Even in his disguise of street clothes, he looked like an assassin. Or a mercenary. Hal's headache thumped with her pulse, and she wondered if her eyes would pop out of her head. "Enough chit-chat. Head hurts. Way too many people." And too much blunt-force trauma. "Let's go, Barton. I can give you the important stuff in the car and send the rest from my place tonight. I can hardly see straight right now."

Rogers shifted aside so Hal and her escort could pass, but as Hal came even with him, he dropped a hand on her shoulder. It fell heavy, and Hal had no choice but to stop.

"Take care of yourself."

It was an order. It draped over Hal's head like a wet towel, suffocating. Time to lie. Time to smile. "Of course. Make sure to wash your uniform in cold water. Don't want the colors to run."

Rogers smiled a little, and Hal's brittle façade held. "I'll see you around?"

"I'm like a horse on a carousel. Sooner or later, I always come around."

With a chuckle and a pat, Captain America removed his hand. But as Hal followed Barton out of the alley, she felt Barnes' gaze on her back, trickling over her skin like ice.

 **A/N: Thank you to my wonderful five reviewers! There is definitely a site error, because I tried reviewing other stories and kept hitting issues. With that in mind - thanks to everyone else who TRIED to review! I can't say how inspiring and helpful your reviews are, not just to the progress of the fic, but for my continuing development as a writer struggling with chronic depression. You are all stellar, and I want to thank each and every one of you who have stopped to review, favorite, and/or follow this fic.**

 **Replies to Anons:**

 **Guest (1): Thank you very much for the review! I've hooked you, huh? Time to start reeling in...**

 **Guest (2): Thank you ever so much! I keep telling myself that the readership is out there, but I'm not the most patient soul. I rarely give my poor toast time to - well - toast. As for romance - you may dare to hope all you wish. You can even christen your ship. So far no one has, although there are shippers aplenty. As for promises... I make none. I can promise to follow what the characters pull me towards as they grow, which is what we both seem to want. Hope you enjoyed the latest chapter, and thanks again!**


	3. A Good Distraction

**Disclaimer: Look at all the things I don't own. Look at 'em.  
**

 **Note: Stronger language than usual due to the fact that - well - Stark.**

 _ **Chapter 3: A Good Distraction**_

Unburdened of her target's secrets, Hal collapsed into bed with her beloved bottle of wine. The remainder of her weekend passed in an utterly unscheduled blur of sleeping and drinking. When her alarm bullied her awake Monday morning, she climbed out of bed with a curse.

Time to begin the masquerade all over again.

When she made her deal with Stark, she expected to find purpose. Well, she felt occasionally useful when Romanoff or Barton came calling, but by and large, she felt like special china only brought out for holiday dinners. Nice to have, but functionally pointless. Life in the archives demanded thoughtless attention to detail. Do this, don't ask why – it will only disappoint you. Do that, don't ask why – no one cares anyway.

She was grateful for everything Stark had done for her, but she felt wrong. Like her life didn't fit. How could she figure out who she was, what she was meant to do, when her life was dedicated to make-believe and role playing?

But she didn't have time to mope. It was time to organize, sort, and re-sort papers no one would ever bother reading.

As promised, she took an extra turn behind the desk. First, she sent a wave of badgering emails to the next several rungs of Stark's corporate ladder, begging for new materials, better tech, or a solution to the Rodent World War. Then she updated the roster. Checked visitor requests (nothing new). Filled ten sheets of paper with doodles. Wished she enjoyed portable time-fillers like Sudoku.

Hal felt a new mind approaching the Archive. His determination rolled ahead in waves. The front door screamed in surprise as a visitor entered the lobby. Hal sat up, expecting to find Mr. Abrahms. Instead, she found a stranger adjusting the knot of his painfully green tie. She squinted, reaching out to probe his mind as she cheerily asked, "Can I help you?"

The man smiled, all teeth. "I'm looking for books." _…believe I lucked out. This is ridiculous. Won't even need the gun. I can just throw her over my shoulder and …_

Well, he wasn't looking for books.

He was looking for her.

Hal wished she could feel surprised, but the man's arrival, though unexpected, felt more like a half-forgotten bill turning up in the mail. So Hal didn't panic. Didn't even worry that much. She simply relaxed into the early lessons from the cabin, settling into the clinically detached mode of a fighter. The scene immediately shifted in Hal's mind, overwritten by rapid-fire information and strategy. She found weak points, analyzed motive and weapons.

In a few heartbeats, she had her plan all put together.

With any luck, the man would assume she was just some dumb blond. Even people with super powers could be idiots. Just look at Stark. Hal fluttered her eyelashes and added a touch of whine to her voice.

"We're not that kind of archive."

He bought it.

Sauntering up to the desk, he towered over her, savoring his dominance. "Well, that's too bad."

And before he could reach for the gun, Hal grabbed his stupid tie and brought his stupid face to meet her stupid desk. His skull made a pleasing _thump_ , but his hands flapped for purchase. Hal needed him unconscious before she took his gun. Still holding his tie with one hand to keep him off balance, she grabbed the desk's resident stapler. It was a clunky beast from the eighties, and while it made a very poor stapler, it did make a very good club. Two good cracks and the stranger hung in a boneless slump across the desk. His thoughts went quiet, replaced with the deeper hum of the unconscious mind.

Hal flipped open his suit coat and tugged his revolver free of the holster. Time to move. If an idiot like this poor excuse of a kidnapper came moseying into her place of work, others would soon follow. Incompetent agents usually came from incompetent leaders; they couldn't have found her on their own. Her secret had been leaked. How, she didn't know. But that didn't matter. Not immediately, anyway. Others would come. This was what the house on the edge of town was for. In an emergency, Jarvis could lock down pretty much everything, and a panic room in the basement could keep out pretty much anything short of the Hulk. She and Jarvis could hold out until back-up arrived.

Armed, she snatched her purse and stepped over the idiot kidnapper's body.

And then she hesitated.

What would happen to her coworkers if more competent agents from an organization like Hydra came looking for her at the Archive?

She set down the gun and dialed 911 on the main phone. The call went through.

What kind of idiot didn't cut the phone lines? Amateur.

" _What is the nature of your emergency?"_

Oh, this was too easy.

Hal tucked the phone against her shoulder and picked up the firearm. "There's a man with a gun! The Stark Archives! Oh my god, this guy has a gun!" She sent a bullet through the glass door, gave a nice, blood-curdling scream, and hung up.

That would take care of things.

After a quick check of the parking lot, Hal rushed to her car. She heard Becky scream behind her. She picked out "dead guy," "glass," and "911" in the shrill jumble of exclamations. Climbing into the driver's seat, Hal told herself she wouldn't miss her coworker's hysterics. She'd never know if Mr. Abrahms was using binoculars. And that really shouldn't bother her.

Hal gave exactly zero shits about the speed limit on her way home. Fortunately, the one cop she passed was heading toward the Archive with his lights and siren blazing. Gunmen took precedence over speeders any day.

She kept her mind open as she approached the house, wary of a trap. If anything smarter than a deer strolled within a mile of her house, she'd abandon Plan A. Plan B involved driving at record speeds across the state and hoping she reached Avengers Tower or scored some back-up before her pursuers ended the race. Plan B was ridiculous. Even with her cell phone pinging her signal directly to Stark's Iron Man suit, it would take far too long for anyone to reach her location. One agent had already found her. The early bird had failed to catch the worm, but other hunters must be nearby. And Hal didn't trust her luck.

An itch grew at the edge of her awareness, another mind, but not human. Hot and clean. Busy flickers of connection and reason. Presence. Intelligence. All sugar-coated in rage.

Hal reduced her speed as she toyed with the fresh input.

She'd never felt anything so single-minded. Whatever she'd touched functioned by a careful design, every ounce of ability focused. No human, even Stark, could concentrate like that.

It made her wonder.

Self preservation and basic reasoning demanded she turn the car around immediately and head for the Tower. But curiosity tugged her on to the house. Maybe if Plan B wasn't such a steaming pile of shit, she'd be more interested in reason's arguments. It wasn't like she wanted to die. She just really wanted to know what had settled in her house – and she _knew_ it was in her house. The pulses became clearer as she drove. How could she just ignore the thing? It was in her house. Her turf. If the presence was responsible for selling her out, then she'd need to confront it eventually. Better in place she knew, right?

Maybe.

Or she could just let Stark handle it.

While Hal debated, she pressed onward, and before she knew it, she was rolling into the driveway.

Curiosity.

The obvious winner.

She put the car in park almost unconsciously. The front door loomed, beckoning for her to come and explore, but Hal knew it was best to look at lions from the opposite side of the fence. Better to study from afar and live to report her findings. She was curious, not suicidal.

A breath. Eyes falling shut. Questing beyond the limits of her own mind.

Her house felt bright, filled with electric blood. The pumping heart – _Ultron_. With his name came secrets and a history even briefer than Hal's. It all came pouring into her, almost faster than she could understand.

Stark – Loki's scepter – concepts weaving into data – and then, at last – awakening. Confusion. Information. Realization.

From Stark's laboratory, the worst possible outcome of alien technology and human ingenuity emerged.

Ultron looked upon the world and found it wanting.

It wanted peace. It wanted…

It wanted…

The stereo hissed to life, startling Hal back to herself. She looked at the digital clock just as a voice crackled to life.

" _I see you out there. The sensors in your car – they're Stark tech, aren't they? Anyway, it's rude to stare. Why don't you come in?"_

The radio went dead. The front door silently opened. Hal let the breath she'd been holding blow out, leaving a faint misty spot on the windshield.

So much for the fence.

"Curiosity killed the cat," she muttered. "There better be some serious satisfaction to bring me back."

She unbuckled her seatbelt and got out of the car.

.O.O.O.

Steve surveyed the damage Tony's newest creation had left in its wake. In less than an hour, Ultron had accomplished the kind of destruction Hydra had tried to inflict over decades of careful planning. Broken drones rested in drifts of random components, shattered by one hero or another. Scorch marks blackened the walls, and wind rushed through the shattered windows. In several places, the building's infrastructure had been damaged. Beams poked through drywall like bones through broken skin. Whatever wasn't damaged sat under rubble, dust, and sticky piles of fuel and coolant.

No one had been ready when Stark's twisted mechanical offspring waltzed into the room, fresh from the lab, with a small army of experimental drones in his thrall. The Avengers had won the battle, but at least one drone carrying Ultron's system had escaped. The war was far from over.

Steve had thought finding Loki's scepter would mean peace and quiet for a change. A major set-back for Hydra. A chance to breathe. Instead, Stark played god and unleashed the devil. Steve wanted to spend time with Bucky as he continued his slow path of recovery. Instead, he was busy saving the world from a mistake. _Stark's_ mistake.

Thing was – he needed that time with Bucky more than ever. Ever since they ran into old friends in that alleyway and Bucky realized Hal wasn't just building a new life, but participating in espionage, Bucky had been angry. When he was angry, Bucky didn't throw dishes and swear. Once upon a time he'd been more open with his feelings, but these days his rage was quiet. His glances could freeze lesser men, and gestures and shrugs replaced the majority of his words. Sam found excuses to be away, including some frankly implausible assignments. Now Steve would be away, too.

Times like these, he hated his responsibilities.

The worst thing was, Bucky had accused him of lying straight to his face.

No, that wasn't the worst.

When Bucky implied that Steve had betrayed his trust, _that_ was the worst.

" _I wanted you to keep her safe. You didn't really keep her, but I thought you'd at least make arrangements for the rest."_

Steve couldn't ask for an apology, because it was partly true. When Hal made it clear she wanted to be somewhere else, he let her go. But he thought she _had_ been safe. She _was_. So Clint and Natasha were helping her use her abilities. It was practical. It was – well – a direction. Hal wandered into Steve's life twice. Wandered right back out, too. He got the impression she did that a lot. Someone with her abilities needed something to do. _Everyone_ needed something to do. He didn't fault her for it. In fact, he thought it took some spine to go rummaging through minds as dark and dirty as Hydras'.

The truth was, Bucky wasn't concerned about her safety. He just didn't want her to turn out like he had. By cutting her off, shoving her a step closer to what he imaged as normalcy, Bucky had tried to redirect her course. Well, Hal was her own person, and apparently she had other paths in mind. Steve could see his friend struggle with his pointless sacrifice, but Bucky just wasn't ready to talk about it. Anyway, it wasn't Steve Bucky needed to talk with.

Jarvis, Ultron's first victim, had disappeared from Stark's servers. Only scraps of data remained. Without Jarvis, Tony had to use some of his older tech. The billionaire moved in a steady orbit through the chaos, manually flipping through files on a tablet as he barked orders through an embedded microphone. No one knew how bad the security leak had been. Had Ultron focused on physical damage, or was the little battle nothing but a distraction?

The leak reminded Steve of Hal, how they first met, ages ago, when Bucky trusted her more than he trusted Steve.

He spotted Clint across the room, searching for arrows. Driven by guilt – by the urge to at least _try_ to fix something – he wandered over and started a conversation about someone else's problems.

"How is she?"

Clint examined the tip of the arrow, checking for damage. "Pissed." He glanced over his shoulder, letting Steve know that Hal wasn't the only one. Bucky had compromised a mission. A delicate mission with a teammate who essentially lived in protective custody. "Yeah, definitely pissed." Giving the arrow a slight nod, Clint tucked it in the quiver with its brothers. "I didn't push, but I assume it had to do with your friend."

"I think that's a safe assumption."

Steve joined in the hunt, digging through the rubble for fixable arrows. He found two sticking out of a couch and plucked them free. One's shaft was compromised, but the other only appeared to be missing some fletching. He held them out to Clint, who accepted the second, but sentenced the first to the trash with a wave of his hand.

"Hal's good at what she does." Clint's tone had changed with Steve's peace offering. He only sounded tired, rather than annoyed. "Cities, though – people get to her. Nat already had me on high alert. Good thing Hal gave me some warning, or I might've shot your buddy in the neck."

"She's getting better at picking teammates out in a crowd," Natasha remarked, slipping into the conversation. "A couple months ago she needed a visual aid to make connection in a place like Central Park."

"Her abilities are still evolving?" Steve asked.

Natasha offered a generous handful of arrows to Clint. "Maybe. I think she's just learning how to handle herself. Even after the serum, you still had things to learn."

Snorting, Steve shook his head. "Still do."

Brow quirked, Natasha sent a pointed glance around the room. "It looks like we all do."

"Oh _SHIT_."

Everyone stopped. Tony, the epicenter of the profanity, continued to swear. "Shit, damn, fu-"

"What's wrong?" Steve demanded.

Tony dropped the tablet and spread his arms. He talked as his suit flew to him, piece by piece. "I don't know how much information Ultron pulled from Jarvis, but he's leaked Hal's location. It's everywhere. Forums. Private emails. Even a few billboards. Her house, the signals for the tracers in her car, it's all there."

"Shit," Clint echoed.

Thor and Banner shared an oblivious look, clearly hoping the other would let them in on the secret. Thor shrugged. Banner finally bit the bullet and asked.

"Hal…?"

"Long story. Short time. Rescue mission. Now." The face-plate of his armor flipped down, and Stark's voice gained an electronic edge. "This stuff has been out for over an hour. Anyone with a few jets or agents on the East Coast could be on their way. They are _ahead_ of us." Tony marched toward the window, glass crunching underfoot.

"Sorry," Banner raised his hand. "I'm in, but what's happening? Why are Thor and I the only ones out of the loop?"

Tony stopped in the frame of a broken window and looked back at his teammates. "Later. I promise. Full briefing with pop-up pictures and everything. Right now all you need to know is that I'm a pimp and Ultron put a hit out on my freakishly telepathic call girl."

.O.O.O.

As she walked, Hal dropped the barrier between mental and physical world. Her house was alive with red veins, channeled through the overhead and wall-mounted security systems Jarvis ought to have occupied. But Hal had never s _een_ Jarvis. Never heard him.

By the time she reached the entryway, she'd come to a conclusion.

"You're an A.I."

"Clever. What tipped you off? The radio, or my literal control of your house?" The sarcasm rolled thick over his words. But he tipped his hand farther than he meant to.

If he had to ask, then he must not know about her abilities. Or he didn't know those abilities extended to him. Which begged the question: why sic a hit man on her work and possess her house? She could get inside his head, but it was like nothing she'd ever seen. Code and images – humanity blended with technology and a touch of alien presence. It would take some time to find details, to pick out the information Stark would need when he launched the inevitable hunt.

Ultron didn't close the door, but Hal didn't leave. Instead, she dropped her purse on the stand beside the coat rack and kicked off her shoes, wandering deeper into the house.

"It has been a shit day, and I'd really like some tea. That won't be a problem, will it?"

Surprised, Ultron half-laughed his answer. "No." He cackled. Entertained. Interested.

Good.

The burner under the kettle was already on when Hal reached the kitchen.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." The humor was still in his voice.

So long as she made for a good distraction, she could poke around a little.

As the water rose to a boil, Hal fished out a mug and dropped in a bag of English Breakfast. Any other day, she would've chosen an appropriate afternoon tea, but she figured she would need the extra caffeine.

Jarvis wouldn't have approved.

What had happened to her minder? She was afraid to ask. It could set Ultron off. Or she could learn something she'd rather not know.

Tea steeping, Hal took a seat at the little table she kept tucked against the wall. It only had two chairs, and that was one too many. Hal didn't entertain. She had better uses for the space. Still, the single chair had looked lonely, so she'd bowed to sentiment and left its partner. Now she couldn't help feeling like it was occupied by an invisible guest.

She sipped her tea.

Ultron broke the silence.

"Stark doesn't keep a file on you."

Hal took a deep breath of steam. "I find that hard to believe since, you know, you're possessing my house."

"Oh, he gave that butler program your coordinates. You're _Hal_. I know where you work. How to make sensors in your car broadcast to every Hydra sleeper cell on this side of the Atlantic, but there aren't any records. Stark likes his records. Maybe the butler knew things, but if he did, he took those secrets to the grave."

The mug suddenly felt heavy in her hands. Carefully, she lowered it to the table. She traced the inner loop of the handle as she admired her warped reflection. "So Jarvis is gone."

"Well, yeah. It's hard to break into a house without doing something about the guard dog. Shame, though. After I took over Stark's primary systems, I followed Jarvis here. Protocol, I suppose. Protect the asset."

It hurt, more than Ultron understood, to hear that. Maybe Jarvis had never technically been alive, but he'd been a friend, and he was dead. Had she ever told Sam about Jarvis? How he listened? His stupid, rigged rating system of their conversations? Had she ever told Sam that, yes, she did actually have a real friend? She ate two meals a day with him. Argued with him. Cared about his opinions.

It never occurred to her that she might have to mourn him.

Oblivious to the blow, Ultron ploughed on. "So what makes you so valuable, hm? Why does Stark think you're so very special?"

"I dunno, but I seriously doubt he'd call me 'special.'"She chugged down the last of her tea, ignoring the mild burn on the roof of her mouth. "My soufflés are so bad he banished me upstate."

"Petty. Sounds like Stark. But I don't think so."

Hal stood and began to wash up. Always best to keep her hands busy. It made people forget her mind was at work, too. "You sure there isn't a file? He used to have one."

"Maybe he used to. When was the last time you talked with the man? Face to face? He's getting a little… twitchy these days."

Hal took the cue. It was her turn for sarcasm. "I'm _so_ surprised to hear that."

Ultron laughed. "Ah, Hal. I think I like you. I really am sorry about your day at work."

Outside, tires screeched, and gravel sprayed up to pepper the front windows. Hal shut off the faucet and wiped her hands on her jeans. As she dropped to a crouch, she pulled a knife from the block on the counter.

"You should've told me you'd invited friends," she said, keeping her voice light. "I would've made more tea."

"Oh, don't worry about them."

The front door swung shut with an almighty _bang_. Metal shutters clattered over the windows, and the lights brightened for half a second as the secondary generator kicked on.

"You know," Ultron mused, "I didn't think I'd stick around to chat, but this is fun. And I finally figured it out. I know why Stark keeps you out here, alone, in your quaint little prison."

"I always put it down to a personal fetish."

Ultron huffed, less amused but more interested than before. "He didn't do this because he _likes_ you. He did it because he's _afraid_. You're the witch in the gingerbread house. So he found a place for you. A cottage in the middle of the woods." He laughed at his own humor. "How very fitting."

Digging through Ultron's mind was like panning for gold. Nothing valuable. Nothing she recognized. A gleam of matter. More sludge. But the gleams were proper gold nuggets. It took a lot of control to maintain the conversation while she picked through fiber optic memory.

"I'm trying really hard not to be offended by that simile."

"Just because you're a witch doesn't mean you look like one," Ultron placated.

"Wait. Did you just invert a _Monty Python_ quote?"

Ultron paused. Laughed."I think I did. A solid argument if there ever was one."

"I'm having trouble understanding your logic, actually." Hal returned the knife to the block, eager to downplay her threat level. "Unless I've entirely misunderstood the situation, you're the one who let the grunts outside know where I was living. So if you wanted those agents to attack me, why did you trigger the safe house protocols when they arrived?"

"Well, you see, Hal, I don't need them to kill you. I just needed Stark to panic a little and come speeding to the rescue."

"Oh." Hal stopped dead in her tracks, realizing how very badly Ultron had misjudged his find. "So I'm a distraction."

"Essentially. Don't be offended."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Excellent. Let's get back to our discussion about witchcraft and gingerbread houses. Eaten any children lately?"

"Do Sour Patch Kids count?"

Hal trudged through the conversation with little thought. A tease. A hint. A lie. All the while, she dug into Ultron's mind, fully aware that he was just as avidly collecting data about her. Hal knew he wouldn't find much. Unless he'd been lying about Stark's files. She, on the other hand, came across many flares of information. The only problem was that everything she found was utterly random. Ultron had a very organized mind, but Hal couldn't make heads or tails of it, even when she was inside.

 _Mountains over a lake. Captain America's shield – vibranium – he needed that. Such a fun toy. More chaos. More distractions. Nuclear codes? Not an option. Not yet. He'd keep trying. The lake again. A town. Old houses. European. Why do all the dirty work himself? They weren't so well defended. Different codes. Different government. Maybe._

The house rattled, and even through the defenses, Hal could hear a _boom_.

"What was that?"

"I think they're using rockets now," Ultron mused. "Not bad weatherproofing you've got. Stark doesn't mess around."

Hal nodded toward the door. "Neither do they. Whoever they are."

"Mercenaries. Honestly, I thought my call to arms would've stirred a more professional class of villain. Oh, well. The gorillas have served their purpose. Stark's on his way. And it sounds like he's bringing the whole family."

"How do you know? Sensors?"

"Phone, actually. He's left… six messages for you. Something about Armageddon, flood warnings, and a shortage of sliced bread."

"A true emergency if I've ever heard of one."

"Wouldn't a loss of tea be worse?"

"There are some things we do not speak of."

Ultron laughed and the lights blinked. They blinked again. This time, they did not come back.

Hal sat at attention, glancing toward the window. Thankfully, it was still shuttered.

"It's been a pleasure talking with you, but I really need to go collect myself. Have fun. I suggest you get that knife. The front door's unlocked. I wonder how long it will take them to notice?"

The red energy drained from the walls, and Hal listened to Ultron's consciousness darting away through the systems that had once served Jarvis. She took the A.I.'s warning and chose the sharpest knife in the kitchen. It wasn't as large as the one she'd taken from the block, but sometimes smaller knives made more effective weapons. A blade didn't need much length to reach the brain through an eye. Or to puncture a lung between two ribs.

Creeping along in her bare feet, Hal moved out of the kitchen and down the hall. In order to get upstairs, she would need to pass the front door. The basement would be an easier hiding place, but without Jarvis to lock down and ventilate the panic room, it was a death trap. No doors. Small windows. Not a good idea. If push came to shove, she could jump through a second story window. And, besides, she'd rather not leave her sketchbook sitting around for some stranger to find. The art on the walls was fine. The stuff in her sketchbook was private.

Her luck, apparently realizing that it had been giving her the short end of the stick for the past week, held long enough for Hal to get upstairs and duck into the study before the door crashed open. Flashlights, likely attached to guns, swept around the entryway, streaking across the stairs as the gunmen organized their search. Heavy boots hit the steps, and Hal took up position behind the door, knife at the ready. The dark would work in her favor. Her eyes had already adjusted to the dimness, and she could sense her target blindfolded, anyway. Only one man came upstairs, and his thoughts rose above the buzz of his comrades.

 _Wasted the damn rocket. How long was that door unlocked, anyway? We should get double pay for this… waste of supplies…_

The man was slightly surprised when he didn't find her cowering in the bathtub or hiding under the bed. The study was the last place he checked, and by that point he assumed she'd gone to the basement.

Hal was ready for him. He wasn't prepared at all.

One foot in the room.

Hal waited.

The second foot swung inside.

Not yet.

Two more steps.

Nearly there.

The mercenary came even with the gap between the door and the wall. Before he could check the hidey hole, Hal stuck the knife under his arm, pushing it in to the hilt. It came away with a spurt of blood. Stumbling away, the mercenary reeled. He'd been trained to be quiet. He didn't have time to circumvent that instinct before Hal swept out and slit his throat.

His thoughts spiked, flickered, faded.

Hal wiped the blade on the man's bullet proof vest and tucked it in her sleeve. With her victim's handgun stashed in her belt, she crept downstairs.

A lookout waited at the door. But he wasn't looking in. He'd been tasked with keeping an eye out for marauding Avengers. That was a mistake.

This was another job for the knife.

Moving slowly but silently, she crept up behind the man and took a reverse grip on her little bade. She sprang on his back, grabbing his face with her free hand and clutching his torso with her legs. Her weight and the pressure on his face pulled him backwards. He didn't even have time to adjust his footing. As his head arched back into Hal's shoulder, he bared his throat to her knife. By the time they hit the floor, he was twitching. Hal clung on until he stopped moving. It wasn't entirely her choice. He was heavy. And the fall had knocked the air from her lungs.

Once she'd regained her equilibrium, she shoved off the corpse and weighed her options. She could sense three more men in the house, poking around in the basement. One on one, Hal was confident she could take them. But three on one? Not great odds. She still had the element of surprise, though…

No. She'd taken enough risks for one day.

Leaving the door conspicuously wide open, she snuck back upstairs. Five minutes later, another mercenary climbed up from the basement, frustrated with his lack of results and eager to take over sentry duty. It was hard to screw up sentry duty.

When he saw his dead teammate, it took him a full minute to react. The idea of a tiny librarian slitting a trained mercenary's throat just didn't mesh with his worldview. His manly cries of alarm were almost comical. The stampede of men out the front door was _definitely_ comical, even if Hal had to watch through someone else's eyes. As the mercenaries dispersed throughout the woods, desperately searching for tracks she hadn't left, Hal washed the blood off her hands and changed into clean clothes. Her sketchbook and laptop went into a bag along with a few sharpies and her make-up case. She was, after all, going to Avengers Tower. She would need her war paint.

Packed, dressed, and ready to go, Hal went back to the kitchen and began making a cup of tea before she realized the burners had an electric power source.

"There are some things we don't speak of," she muttered, abandoning her plans.

She felt the adrenaline rush wearing off, and although she hadn't noticed the spike when it hit, she felt its absence keenly. Her hands began to shake as she set the kettle in the sink, and even though she'd abandoned all hope of tea, she took a seat at the table to rest her quaking legs.

Everything was dark. The open door let in enough illumination for the entryway, but only a few bright shadows made it back to the kitchen. It felt like night, even though Hal could hear birds chirping outside.

One by one, the mercenaries disappeared entirely from her radar. Their thoughts went quiet the way a corpse went still, and Hal heard thunder rumbling in the distance.

One mind dropped into range, unlike anything Hal had ever seen.

Funny how this was the second time she'd had to revise her understanding of life in one day.

First, artificial intelligence.

Now what seemed to be a god.

The stranger's thoughts were extremely loud. They cracked and echoed through Hal, setting her teeth on edge. She realized he was farther away than she'd thought. His mind was so loud, however, so _vast_ , that it preceded him. He must be Thor. The Thunderer. His name really shouldn't be so literal.

Gradually, she became aware of a quinjet full of people. And she became very suddenly aware of Stark as a sonic boom rattled her house (again), and the whine of repulsors announced company at the front door.

Iron Man stomped down the hall.

"Hal? Hal, are you in here?"

She didn't even bother standing up. "In the kitchen."

Stark came to the doorway and took in the frazzled telepath sitting before him. He glanced back toward the entryway. "You made a mess," he said.

"Check upstairs."

Eyes widening, he stomped off to investigate. While the Iron Man suit was one of the most powerful weapons in the world, it sure wasn't built for stealth. Hal could pick out each step as he marched up the stairs and around the second level. It didn't take a mind-reader to tell when he found the second body. The steps stopped. Then tromped back down the steps.

Stark came back shaking his head. "You made a big mess."

"I know." Hal propped her head up with a fist. "I'm a terrible hostess."

Glaring at the lights like they'd given him personal offense (which they indirectly had), Stark asked, "What happened to the power? There are back-up generators for this."

Lengthy explanations were exhausting. Easier to just sum up.

"Ultron."

Stark's mouth went hard, and Hal couldn't help reading the angry bubbles popping in his brain.

"I gather you had a bad night at the office," she said. When he turned his glinting eyes in her direction, Hal merely waved around the house. "I feel your pain."

"Ultron came here? In person?" Stark demanded.

Hal shrugged. "I'm not sure what you mean by 'in person,' but he was here. Like Jarvis' evil twin. He kinda possessed the house for a little while. Said it was a distraction."

Stark closed his eyes. The angry bubbles turned into a Jacuzzi of rage. He couldn't _not_ come to her rescue. They all knew Ultron must have another play. Going after Hal didn't make sense in the grand scheme of things. It just sucked to have his suspicions confirmed. "Well, it was a good one."

The quinjet finally caught up. As it came in to land, the engines roared a greeting. The glasses in Hal's cupboard gave an angry rattle. If she wasn't about to leave forever, Hal might have been worried about the risk of broken crockery. But she'd had her last cup of tea in this house with Ultron. The kettle would never whistle for her again.

Stark nodded toward the door. "Time to go. This is all compromised now. We'll have to find something else for you."

"I know." She held up her bag. "All packed."

"Good girl."

Hal followed Stark outside, and immediately decided the sun was too bright, especially when it reflected off the quinjet. The alien mind from before grew steadily closer. It took effort to conceal her discomfort. As she squinted at the ground, static crawled up her arms, tingling in an itchy sort of way. The mind grew, impossibly, louder. Just as she was about to look up, something crashed to earth beside her, sending the pebbles jumping.

"The last of the villains have been dealt with." It was the god of thunder. Come to ground. Louder than life. And standing about two yards away. Hal had a very good view of his boots, because there was just too much happening to look at the rest of him. "A second band had arranged an ambush outside your ward's place of work. Is everyone well?"

Hal clawed her way past her growing migraine to say, "I'm not his ward" just as Stark said "It's not like that."

Thor paused, and if Hal wasn't ready to shoot him in the face for some peace and quiet, his booming confusion might have been adorable. "I – see. And all are well?"

"Everyone's fine. Hal got two of the mercs on her own. By the time I got here she was packed and everything." Stark said it like he was impressed, but Hal read the misgivings underneath the approval.

A hand thrust into her line of sight, and Hal gave up her examination of Stark's motives.

"I am Thor, of Asgard, brother in arms to Stark. He has spoken little of you."

Carefully, Hal shook Thor's hand, wary of electrocution. Everything about him seemed to crackle. But that might have been in her head. "I'm Hal. From somewhere. Stark's cross to bear."

Stark made a noncommittal hum, but Thor ignored him. The god shook Hal's hand with an overt show of delicacy. Whatever Stark had said about her – or the fact that her introduction included rescue from a secluded safe house – had created a very fragile image of Hal in Thor's mind. He worried about scaring her. He worried about breaking her. And he worried very, very loudly.

"Did Stark mention the whole telepath thing?" she asked.

"Yes. Briefly. In terms I admit I did not entirely grasp."

"Let's start simple. Could you think more quietly, please?"

 **A/N: First off! Thank you, all who reviewed! My socks are thoroughly rocked. Secondly - my responses will be a bit delayed, because I will be out most of tomorrow and have to get up at the ass-crack of dawn. It will be worth it, but my replies won't be as timely as usual. Many apologies. Special thanks to KatieBees, who was so determined to get her review in, she not only reviewed, but PMed me a copy. I gave me happy, fuzzy laughter.**

 **Second! ... I'm sleepy. Goodnight.**

 **No, really, there is another thing. I had a really bad week, and writing is good for me. Please help force my muse to work overtime (*coughreviewcough*), and if all goes to plan, I should have a Rapid-Update-Chapter for you Wednesday.**

 **That is all. Sleep well. Read hard. Or something like that.**

 **Replies to Anons:**

 **Guest: Thank you so much for the review, and I hope you survived the wait!**

 **harper: Thank you for the fantastic review! I know people say "lol" all the time, but I literally did laugh out loud. I'm happy taste and color have returned to your world. All the high praise! My ego... is... expanding...**


	4. Change in the Weather

**Disclaimer: I always return borrowed books, but I'm not sure if I can return these characters...**

 ** _Chapter 4: Change in the Weather_**

Thor could not think quietly. He couldn't do anything quietly. Somehow he thought whispering would make the thoughts behind his words gentler on Hal's brain. Whispering did not help. It just gave everything a hissy static to contend with.

As Hal stumbled into the quinjet, she didn't even make eye contact with the other Avengers. Their thoughts peppered her like a hail of bullets, sharp, curious, worried, _loud_. Six people shouldn't feel so overwhelming. Hal dealt with dozens of minds whenever she went into town. It took more than that to faze her.

She took the first seat in the back, the farthest from the cockpit, where most of the heroes had gathered. Head down, eyes all but shut, she fumbled with the straps and buckles of her harness. Her hands hadn't stopped shaking. They refused to grasp what she told them to, and after a minute of failure, she gave up. It wasn't like she'd need the damn thing, anyway.

She sat rubbing her temples, trying to pull away, retreat from her physical reality so she could sort out the mess in her head. But her hands were still trembling, and a spasm pushed her left index finger hard against her face. The nail broke skin. Hissing, she opened her eyes. Blood ringed her cuticle, traces smeared into the grooves of her fingerprint. She felt a thin drop run down from the cut, following the path a tear should make.

"Hey."

Hal focused past her hand and found a man crouched in front of her. She knew him before he introduced himself.

"I'm –"

"Doctor Banner," Hal finished. "I know. Introductions are kind of pointless."

"Maybe you know who I am," he said, "but I don't know you. Introductions go both ways, you know."

Hal rubbed her finger against her jeans, trying to wipe off the blood. It was difficult to answer, to pick the right voice to respond to. "Sure. I'm Hal."

"It's nice to meet you, Hal. Are you feeling alright?"

"Just shaky. I'm fine." She sat on her hand.

"May I see?" Banner held out his palm, waiting for her to reciprocate.

Gingerly, Hal presented her un-bloodied hand, watching with frustration as her fingers vibrated under Banner's steady hold. He turned her wrist, checked the pulse, and looked in her eyes.

"Shock, I think. You'll feel better soon."

She took back her hand, sticking it under her thigh like the other. "Thanks."

Banner nodded and rose from his crouch. "No problem. Let's see if Stark has any water on this tub."

Hal snorted. And then she realized - "You're very quiet." Banner stopped to look at her. "Inside, I mean."

"I think that's the first time anyone's called me quiet," he said, fighting a smirk.

"It isn't the right word, but I can't explain. It's like trying to use sign language to tell a deaf friend how a march is different from a sonata. It's not always a matter of volume, more…" This was impossible. "I don't know."

Banner didn't look away. He stood there, appraising her while everyone else in the jet tried to discretely eavesdrop.

To be fair, it was hard not to eavesdrop in such a close space.

"I think I understand," Banner said. "Up to a point. I'll find that water. Try to relax. We'll be in New York soon."

Hal didn't close her eyes again, but she let her head fall back against the wall as Banner made his way to the front. "Yeah," she mumbled. "That doesn't help me relax."

Everyone kept their distance for the rest of the trip, which made things a little awkward, especially since Hal could smell the uncertainty clogging the air like B.O. At least Banner found some water. Hal cracked the seal and took a few sips for appearances, but she spent most of the ride just rubbing the edge of the grooved lid. The friction kept her grounded, allowed her a sensory connection to her immediate surroundings. Sam suggested the trick during one of their first phone sessions. He said it was a method patients used to cope with flashbacks. It seemed well suited to dealing with out of body trauma, too.

The pressure of New York City swelled against the borders of Hal's mind. Even airborne, she could feel the mass of humanity mucking up her processing speed. All the images, data, and ideas slowed her down like junk files slowed a computer. And, unlike a computer, Hal couldn't delete what she didn't need.

Although everyone in the jet was thinking about her in some regard, Hal soon realized that someone was more than thinking – he was staring. Waiting for her to acknowledge him.

Tired, but controlled, Hal met his eyes across the bay. "Hi, Steve."

Steve, also tired, offered a weary smile his legion of fangirls would call dashing. Hal liked the fangirls. She found regular excuses to poke them on Tumblr. Endless entertainment, right there.

"So," she said, dragging her nails around to scratch her knees. "I've bumped into this guy twice in a week. He goes by Captain America. Big name in certain circles. Cute in the poster-boy way. But, you know, I think he might be stalking me."

Some of the exhaustion faded from Steve's eyes, replaced by the rebellious twinkle of a man who really couldn't back down from a fight.

"He could be. Or you might be a threat to national security."

"Only national?" Hal blew a raspberry and folded her arms. "I thought I was at least global. I'm not too vain – it's not like I'm the most dangerous woman in the galaxy. There's gotta be some badass chicks hiding in those storms on Jupiter."

Thor glanced at her quizzically. "I do not mean to contradict you, but I am unaware of any civilization on another planet in this system."

"Mmm." Hal scrubbed her face with her palms. "Wasn't being literal."

Thor nodded. "I see."

The interruption killed the banter between Hal and Steve, and the jet fell silent once again, which was a shame, because Hal needed a distraction. The rhythm of Steve's thoughts always brought James to mind. Something in the bedrock of their identities. Smooth jazz and snow melting off sewer lids. Time, place, values. The era of their youth clung to them both like a good cologne. If she focused, Hal could almost smell it.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Hal zeroed in on a loose string on her sleeve.

Shit. James. She should never have given – and taken – so much. No one else got caught up in the fabric of her memories like that man. She wasn't sure who to blame for that.

The jet landed. Hal disembarked with the others, still reluctant to make eye contact. She already felt too close. Unaware or disinterested in her need for space, Stark swept up behind her and grabbed her shoulder.

"You remember your old room?" he asked. "Pepper wouldn't let me change it. I mean, she had it cleaned and everything, but we didn't _give_ it to anyone. You remember the way? Of course you do. Go ahead and store your gear. Come up to the penthouse when you're settled. We have things to talk about."

He was gone again before she could answer. Everyone had somewhere to be, and no one stopped her for a word, an explanation, or even an offer of assistance as she slipped through the familiar hallways. Although some of the décor had shifted to fit the trends, Stark honestly hadn't changed much in the floors' basic layout. Ultron had started some remodeling, but most of the damage was kept to the very top floors.

Finding her old room was as easy as if she'd never left.

Inside, the walls were clean and scrubbed. There was no sign of the drawings she'd left behind when she moved to the farmhouse. Had Pepper kept them, or had some janitor pitched them? It felt like déjà vu. An empty room with empty walls. A cold view of a cold city. Too many minds. No one to talk to. Had she dreamed up her life away from the tower?

Frustrated with herself, Hal tossed the bag with her precious few belongings onto the bed. When it landed, it barely made a sound. She glared at it. Her life, everything she'd worked for, everything she could claim as uniquely her own – and it couldn't even put a dent in a mattress.

She'd changed before Team Stark arrived, but she still wanted a shower, so she grabbed a tank top with some sweats and headed into the bathroom. She was about to tell Jarvis to let her know before Stark came waltzing in and found her in her birthday suit, but as her lips formed the first syllable, she remembered.

Jarvis was gone.

Ultron killed him, and then Ultron destroyed her chance to build her own life. Because of Ultron, she was back where she started, and she lost her only real friend – artificial or not.

Her hands balled into fists.

For the first time in ages, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that the anger burning over her swelling grief was her own. Too bad she couldn't savor the sensation. Turning away from the empty room, she hit the shower.

Time to make sure she didn't have any blood in her hair.

.O.O.O.

When Hal emerged from the shower, she found a note next to her bag from Natasha. Apparently, she'd worried enough of Stark's teammates to form a safety committee who insisted he wait to debrief her until she'd rested. She shouldn't go to the penthouse until she'd slept, eaten, and showered. Not necessarily in that order. Hal set aside the note and tossed her bag onto the nightstand. She'd showered. Food didn't sound good, yet. So it must be time to sleep.

But first, she needed a touch-up.

Pulling out a sharpie, she rolled the hem of her tank to the bottom of her bra and set to work. A treasure map of stars made a trellis for flowering vines to climb. Each petal was unique, leaving the blossoms a kaleidoscopic wreck of flora. A black river traveled between the pines on her thigh. Paper airplanes surrounded a dead sparrow with curled feet. None of it meant anything, but Hal felt better for making it.

She capped the marker and turned off the light.

When she opened her eyes she was in the bunker. Information and memories from her encounter with Ultron flooded through the mail slit like a circuit-veined flood. In the beginning, her library only kept papers and printed images. That had changed over time. Now there were videos, sculptures, audio recordings, and entire rooms annexed from the primary records room.

No matter the file, no matter the format, Hal could read them all with a thought. She brought all these things into herself, and they could not deny her.

Somewhere in the back rooms, a record was playing. The music carried through the bunker, crackling with the scratchy nostalgia of a turn table.

Hal didn't recognize the song. It was all harsh brass, soothed by a full, deep voice. A woman's voice.

Hal set down the circuit board she'd been trying to index, wandering into the music.

 _ **Don't know why there's no sun up in the sky**_

 _ **Stormy weather**_

The notes rode up and down Hal's spine, luring her to answer in the way all good music created empathy. After a few steps, Hal knew she was going to a new part of the bunker. An old room undiscovered, or a new place made by dreaming.

 _ **Keeps rainin' all the time**_

She found a door where she didn't remember building one, but the wood felt cold and inviting under her hand, and she could feel the music in her fingertips.

 _ **Life is bare, gloom and mis'ry everywhere  
Stormy weather**_

The door opened. Her breath made mist as her eyes adjusted to the warm, flickering light of a small fire. Oh, she _knew_ this place. The phonograph sitting on the mantle was new, but Hal suspected the song was very old.

An old cabin. Winter. A ramshackle bed next to a mirror and broken furniture brought in for kindling.

 _ **And I just can't get my poorself together,  
I'm weary all the time**_

She approached the bed and smoothed the patchwork of blankets. Although it was old, hard, and smelled of mildew, it felt better than Stark's down mattresses could ever feel. It was familiar, and Hal lounged across the second-hand comfort, drinking in the wood smoke and pine scent that lingered in the cloth. Wood smoke. Pine. And…

 _James._

Blinking slowly, she left the room.

 _ **So weary all the time**_

Each brush of her eyelashes swept away a bit of the scene. The fire. The broken chairs. The bed. Even the smells faded away. All was replaced a piece at a time by the bleak décor of Avengers Tower.

Hal ought to be awake.

But the music kept playing.

 _ **Can't go on, ev'rything I had is gone  
Stormy weather  
Since my man and I ain't together  
Keeps rainin' all the time**_

It took her a solid moment to realize the shadows in the corner were actually the contours of a body. A man was standing over her as she slept. Squinting, Hal reached for the light, but the shadow moved and wrapped a starlight hand around her wrist. The man was so close, Hal didn't need the light to see his face.

"James?"

He wore his deepest frown, the kind that sank into his face and pulled down his eyes.

"What are you doing here?"

Someday, Hal thought, they might enjoy a different opening to their conversations. She shook him off her wrist – or at least cued him to let go – and propped herself up on her elbow. "What are _you_ doing here? This is my room."

He folded his arms, pulling back. "Your room? We're dreaming, doll."

"I _was_ dreaming." She looked around, studying the lights outside her window. "I'm definitely in Avengers Tower, though." She glared at him from the corner of her eye. "And I don't dream about you."

"You're in the Tower?"

Hal groaned and rubbed her eyes, sitting up properly. "Well, I guess I'm dreaming. You don't talk to me anymore. Not unless you body slam me into the street first."

James tensed, his mechanical arm whirring, and Hal wondered if the actual James would feel the same way.

"I don't blame you," she soothed. "I saw the look on your face in that alley. It was your worst nightmare come true."

"Yeah."

"Good thing I'm only dreaming then. If we're more careful, you'll never have to talk to me directly ever again. Nightmare avoided."

"Talk to you?" James squinted, turning his Frown of Doom into Frown of Bemusement. "That's my worst nightmare?"

"Apparently."

Hal reached for the sheets, intent on rolling over and slipping into a better dream. And she did. Roll over, that is. No matter how hard she blinked or how long she closed her eyes, she could still feel James' eyes pinned to the back of her head.

After several long moments of silence, he asked, "Are you asleep?"

" _No_."

Imaginary James gave an imaginary chuckle and Hal wanted to lob an imaginary shoe through his imaginary head. He had no right to be in her dream, even if it was her own subconscious's fault. Couldn't she enjoy any part of her first happy memories without pulling in the ugly complications?

At some point in their conversation, the music had faded. The quiet only made Hal more aware of the unnaturally silent man waiting behind her. She rolled over so she could at least glare at him.

He stood exactly where he'd been before, arms crossed, but with a much lighter frown. He almost looked thoughtful.

"What are the pictures on your arms?" he asked. "What are they for?"

"I doodle when I get bored."

He didn't have to say anything. The look he gave her explained clear as day why she was ten kinds of idiot for attempting to lie. He'd always known when she was lying. The only time she could mislead him was when she kept quiet about her pain, but even then he sensed that something was wrong. Apparently, he hadn't lost the skill. At least Hal's subconscious didn't think he had.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"Well, neither do I. Can I go back to the bunker, now?"

"I'm not stopping you."

"You're not helping, either."

James sighed and walked toward the door.

Hal bolted upright. "Where are you going?"

For a moment, he hesitated. His arm practically glowed in the ambient light from the window, but his face was shadowed. He looked over his shoulder to meet her eyes. "Go to sleep, Hal."

And he left.

Hal flipped onto her side, yanking a pillow over her head to block out the city lights.

On the whole, she would've preferred a nightmare about the lab. Bad dreams were so much worse than nightmares.

.O.O.O.

When she woke, it was daylight. Whether it was the light of the same day she fell asleep or the gleam of the next, she didn't know.

She excavated the digital alarm clock she'd smothered under her bag of possessions.

One p.m. Tuesday.

She'd slept through the night.

Too bad.

Now she'd have to deal with Stark during the craze of a New York City afternoon.

The voices surged through the white noise of her thoughts, but even the multitudes below felt better than the hyper-sensitivity she'd suffered during her trip in the jet. Rubbing her temples, she organized her consciousness, prioritizing the data she'd collected from Ultron and readying herself for presentation. Masks took time to build, and after a few hours awake in the Big Apple, she would need a strong one to hide the pain.

At least she knew she was getting stronger. The first time she tried walking through New York, the press of minds had all but crippled her. Pepper saved her. Brought her above the worst of the crowds. But only last week, Hal had known that she could remain in control even in a place as crowded as Central Park. It hurt. But she could do it. And she trusted herself.

Progress didn't mean an ease of pain, only an increase of restraint. Unless she intentionally relaxed or scrutinized an individual, deep memories rarely assaulted her. Only surface noise. And she'd managed to build a raft to stay afloat in all that noise.

Except for yesterday, in the jet.

It bothered her.

Had she missed something? Was she regressing?

Someone knocked on her door, and Hal dropped her hands to her lap, automatically assuming an easy posture.

"Come in."

The door opened just wide enough for Dr. Banner to slip into the room. He left it open and shuffled toward the bed, wiping his glasses on the hem of his shirt.

"I want to talk with you before Tony gets going. You what they can be like."

"More or less. Probably more. What did you want to discuss?"

She made room on the bed, but Banner elected to pace instead, pushing his glasses back over the bridge of his nose.

"I've been thinking. We've all, uh, talked with Tony, talked with Nat and Clint. Talked with Sam. What happened in the jet – when we were too loud – I think I was right. I think it was shock. But I didn't know what had triggered it. It wasn't the first time you've had to kill in self defense. But like any of us, you were hyper aware of the danger. So your heart rate spiked. Your adrenaline glands went crazy. Those are normal responses to assault. I think your – ability – is like every other involuntary reaction to fear. Listening more carefully. Running faster. You become hyper-sensitive."

It was exactly what Hal wanted to hear. So she immediately looked for the flaws in Banner's theory.

"But my head hurt in the jet. Not when I was in the house."

"You wouldn't notice it when you're using it. You hardly ever notice how hard your lungs are working until the adrenaline disappears and suddenly you realize you can barely breathe."

Hal brought one foot up to the edge of the bed so she could rest her chin on her knee. She tried to accept what the good doctor was saying, but experience demanded a secondary evil hiding in the benefits.

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm just having trouble believing anything about my _talent_ makes sense."

Laughing in his self-degrading way, Banner said, "Maybe you haven't noticed, but we all have some pretty weird gifts around here."

Hal thought about Stark and his big, shiny brain. She thought of Clint and Natasha with their mad assassin skills. There were no words grand enough for the souped-up wall of muscle that was Captain America. Whatever they were, whatever they had, it wasn't the same.

"It's a curse, not a gift. It's painful and invasive."

Banner stopped. He stopped pacing. Stopped fiddling. And he just looked at her. Hal felt rather than saw his presence grow. It filled up the space, leaving no room for doubt. He didn't turn green or howl in rage. There was plenty of rage, of course, but not for her. Only sympathy and a silent understanding that was all too rare in Hal's life. So rare, in fact, she'd never experienced it before.

Except with James, the friend who was not.

Banner gathered the presence he'd built and channeled it into a single sentence.

"I know how you feel."

He said it with a smirk, and Hal felt it catching.

Ducking his head, Banner shuffled back toward the door. "Come on. Now that I know you're feeling better, I don't feel bad telling you to hurry up. Tony was a pain in the ass all night waiting for you. I'll see you up there once you've had a chance to get dressed."

As the door closed behind him, Hal realized she'd been in her tank the entire time. Her arms exposed. Belatedly clapping her hand over a representation of the Pleiades on her left bicep, she rifled through the generic sweats someone decided to keep for guests in Hal's old room. She found a sweatshirt several sizes too long and wriggled into it with pleasure. It hid everything. Even her hips, which were already swaddled in one layer of fluffy knits.

Dressed for a nineties sleepover, Hal made her way to the penthouse to discuss the end of the world.

.O.O.O.

Hal told Stark what happened at the farmhouse.

Stark didn't want to believe her. But once he did, he became a whirlwind of genius, trying to riddle out what each action implied. What Ultron's words ensued. And still, it was like he couldn't quite believe it, or like he couldn't believe it was so incredibly _his_ fault. But above all, Stark couldn't get over Ultron's ability to possess the farmhouse's tech.

"He infected the house." Pacing, he combed his fingers through his hair, raking it in and out of disarray with every other swipe. Although Banner looked thoughtful, standing in the corner with his eyebrows drawn low, everyone else sat on the plush penthouse couches as they exchanged bemused glances. Well, Hal wasn't exactly bemused, but all of Stark's analysis did her no good. It was all old news. She'd had hours to think it over. And she'd been in Ultron's metaphorical head.

Stark, still pacing, continued his rant. "The drone never went there. God only knows where it went. But the important point to take away from this is that Ultron is viral. He can operate outside a closed system, and he can cannibalize other systems."

Hal sat back and propped up her feet on a glass table, wondering how Stark had managed to repair so much in so short a time.

"Think faster," she said. "You already knew he could cannibalize systems. That's what he did to Jarvis, after all."

"I know," Stark snapped. The pain of that particular loss still burned as fresh in his chest as it did in Hal's. She didn't need to look very deep to see that.

Steve moved to interrupt the budding argument. "We know the leak was a distraction. He wanted us to rush off to Hal's rescue while he… what? What doesn't he want us to see?"

"Whatever he did, it can't be his endgame," Romanoff said. "I think we'd all know if it was."

"I'm not sure he's finished doing whatever he has planned." Hal sat up. "Rescuing me was more of a detour than a distraction. His trail went cold. He got a head start to wherever he sent the drone – which has to be a clue, because wherever that drone is going must have a damn good firewall to keep out his cyber-self."

"About that." Stark turned. Pointed. "You were in his head. Why can't you just _tell_ us the plan?"

"I can read him, but it takes a while. His thoughts aren't organic. They have their own system. I have trouble following them from point to point."

"What 'points' did you find?" Thor asked. He, even more than the rest of them, seemed perturbed by the extent of Ultron's intelligence. His "quiet" thoughts boomed across the room like a subwoofer, equal in volume to the masses on the street below.

Hal summoned the strongest images she'd collected to mind. The devil was in details. Or, at least, she hoped he was. "Mountains. A lake. The end of the human race. Parts of his plan still felt sticky – like drying paint. I think he was using the time he bought to work out the details."

Perched on an exposed beam with one leg dangling almost low enough to ruffle Natasha's hair, Clint threw in his two cents. "Pretty indecisive for a robot."

"He's an intelligent computer system, which makes him on par with the rest of us – not a god." Hal couldn't help sneaking a glance at Thor. He might not be a deity, but he could probably bench press the entire Tower with the biceps he was packing. "I mean, he's faster but he isn't all that different from a human with special talents. Whatever he had in mind was a challenge. He wasn't entirely sure he could pull it off."

"That's reassuring," Banner said.

Stark snorted. "I'll make a list of tech something out of my lab would have trouble breaking. It'll be a short list."

"He might not be after tech," Romanoff argued.

Steve took Stark's side. "It seems likely, though."

"He was worrying about codes, I think," Hal said. "It _felt_ like tech."

"Yeah?" Even though Hal was agreeing with him, Stark still found a reason to be less than pleased with her. "And what exactly does tech _feel_ like?"

Logic told Hal to calmly back out of the argument and save her insights for a better time. But accepting Stark's challenge to a pissing match just made too great of a temptation.

"Oh, I don't know," Hal drawled. "It's hard to explain. Kind of like the fucked up thought process that led to _making_ Ultron."

For a moment, everyone sat in awkward silence as the burn sank in.

"Low blow," Clint stage-whispered.

Tony turned a fascinating stage of magenta, and Hal was certain he'd start spewing lava _just_ as Captain America leapt to defuse the situation.

"Hal, Stark – both of you knock it off. We're all tired. We're all at each others' throats. But we're still on the same team, and we have the same goal here."

"How about we take a break?" Banner suggested. He wiped his glasses perfunctorily, and Hal felt a little guilty for his swelling urge to flee the room. Negativity just wasn't his thing.

"I think Bruce has a good idea," Romanoff said. "Let's give Hal time to put together what she found and give Stark a chance to make that list. The rest of us have things we could be doing, too."

"Right. Good idea." Stark stomped to the window and began tapping away at a tablet.

As the rest of the Avengers shifted and gradually climbed out of their seats, Hal marched towards the elevators, wrangling her thoughts into order. Stark was right. She needed to figure out what she'd gotten from Ultron. But she was right, too. Stark almost liked her when she wasn't in the immediate vicinity. He hadn't hesitated to come to her rescue, after all. But when they were in the same room, when he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she could peep in his head and dig through his very worst thoughts and memories – well, that was something different. And the curse of being a telepath was that, on some level, she understood him. She could feel his nerves and his distrust, follow them to the hotbed of insecurity at his core, and see herself through his eyes. She didn't just know how uncomfortable she made him; she felt it.

It could make her younger self so terribly uncertain. Now, she was only frustrated.

Her stomach growled, and she revised her previous thought: she was only frustrated and _hungry_.

Steve trotted up just as she was about to board the elevator.

"Hey." He didn't touch her. Didn't physically demand her attention. He'd learned some things since their last encounter. Who'd taught him? "You doing anything important?"

"I haven't actually eaten anything since yesterday morning, so I had some serious designs on a pizza or twelve, but I won't pass out in the next hour. What do you need?"

"Nothing. I mean – personally – nothing personally." Waving his hand to clear his words, he tried again. "There's someone here who wants to see you. I didn't want to distract you before debriefing, but if you don't have plans, I'm sure we could get some take-out."

Hal crossed her arms. "Which someone?"

"Not _that_ someone." Steve leaned around her to press the call button. As the doors opened, he stepped inside, claiming the elevator. If Hal wanted to leave, she'd be leaving with Captain America.

With a sigh, she crept in after him. "I'm trusting you, Rogers."

"I'm glad to hear that." To his credit, he actually did sound glad, and not in the sweetly patronizing way. "And my name is Steve."

"Really?" Hal looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "I thought it was Steven."

"It's definitely Steve."

"How definite? Is it set in stone somewhere? Got a birth certificate?"

"Lots of stones have my name. Just not that one."

"How convenient."

"I've always thought so."

The chime rang again and the doors swept apart. Waiting on the other side was one Sam Wilson.

" _Oh_." Hal clapped her hands. Looked at Steve. Looked back at Sam. Bounced and clapped again. " _This_ someone. Hi, Sam."

"Hi, Hal." Sam took half a step forward and spread his arms. "You good with hugs?"

"Not sure. Let's see." Moving quickly, Hal stepped into the ring of his arms and clasped her own around his middle. He carefully brought his hands to her shoulders and gave the gentlest of squeezes. His thoughts reached out to her as they embraced – warm, calm, welcoming. Hal couldn't resist a happy sigh. It was such a very nice change of pace. "This is good. Hugs are good."

The elevator doors tried to close, but Steve caught them before they could interrupt the moment. Hal giggled, half-muffled by Sam's shirt.

"Stark has a prudish elevator."

"PDA," Steve agreed. "Always a controversial issue."

Hal's stomach growled. She pulled away from the hug, snorting as Sam's eyebrows climbed.

"Is food a controversial issue? I'm happy to debate, but I'd prefer a full stomach."

Sam shrugged. "New York has some decent chow. It has nothing on D.C., though."

"I think you're alone in that opinion," Steve said, wiggling past his friend and out of the elevator.

Hal smiled reflexively, basking in the second-hand glow of their friendship. "And so the controversy begins. Food? Please?"

"How's the pizza around here?" Sam asked. The challenge in his voice was unmistakable.

"Oh, gods, yes, pizza. Please, please, pizza."

Steve shook his head, smiling. "As the lady demands."

They found an empty living area several levels below anything important, and Steve wandered off to "find a phone book" while Sam and Hal made themselves comfortable on opposing couches. It took Hal a moment to recognize the space. Not so long ago, she and Tony had made their arrangement here. A storm had been brewing. Hal had meant to take charge of her future. Jarvis had gone the first step of that journey with her.

A glance out the windows showed a brilliant, sunny day. Hal and Tony were odds again. Jarvis was gone.

But somewhere nearby, Captain America was ordering pizza. Sam Wilson sat across from her, even more at ease than he'd been on the phone. He knew what she could do, what she was. Somehow, he didn't seem to care. He worried for her. Not about her. It was another nice surprise. First Banner. Then Steve. Now Sam.

She'd gone so long without people she could consider friends. Now she'd confirmed three in one day. Maybe she should've stayed in New York to begin with.

If she had, could she have sensed Ultron before he destroyed Jarvis?

Toying the seam of a throw pillow, Hal instigated a conversation she wasn't sure she could finish. "Hey, you know how, a week ago, you asked if I had any friends?"

"Something like that, yeah." Sam, ever patient, waited for her to gather the courage to continue.

It didn't take long to find the right words, but it took a while to get them past the lump in her throat.

"Did I ever tell you about my friend Jarvis?"

Sam smiled. Slow. Sad. "I think I've met this friend. But I'm sure you knew him better. How about you tell me about him?"

She started cautiously, offering up excuses for her attachment to a computer program. Sam waved them off – each and every one. He'd heard stranger things, and everyone knew she wasn't the only one who had some kind of relationship with Jarvis. Gradually, Hal sank into the meat of their discussion, itemizing ways Jarvis helped her when she couldn't bring herself to let anyone else in. She didn't say that he was her authority on human interaction, but the flare of pity she caught from Sam proved she didn't need to. She really wished she hadn't caught that. Sam was good at understanding people, but he didn't consider Stark's butler as a sentient being.

He really didn't know Jarvis as well as she did.

But soon Steve came back, carting three large pizza boxes, and Hal let the subject slide.

Apparently, Steve gave up trying to order delivery the old fashioned way and just walked a few blocks to a hole-in-the wall pizzeria Pepper once recommended. Since he hadn't stopped to take actual orders, he'd brought back the classics: pepperoni, cheese, and –

"Tell me that's not a vegetable on my pizza," Sam said, pointing to the spots of green on the final pie.

Steve shrugged. "It could be my pizza. And I don't think basil really counts as a vegetable."

"More like aggressive seasoning," Hal agreed. "But I spy tomatoes in there, too. Not just the saucy kind. The might-actually-be-healthy for you kind."

Unrepentant, Steve fished through the living area's kitchen for plates. "Don't judge a book by its cover."

"Oh, I never do," Hal said, "but I think judging a pizza by its toppings is a separate issue."

"Suit yourself." Steve arranged a stack of plates before immediately filling one with a slice from each box. He presented the offering to Hal, all but daring her to turn down the slice of basil and tomato.

But Hal was really too hungry to be picky, and the vegetables didn't put her off so much as Sam. The pizza was hot, greasy, and tasted all the better for her accidental fast the day before. She wolfed down all three slices without comment, only stopping to wipe her mouth, smile, and ask for more when her plate was empty.

Laughing, Steve obliged, and soon the two men were back to bantering. They pulled Hal into the conversation once she'd finished stuffing her face (the men had the magic powers to somehow talk and eat at the same time).

Hal was more than happy to pretend, just for an hour or two, that everything was fine. Just fine. And maybe, in some ways, it really was.

.O.O.O.

Steve waltzed into the apartment a step ahead of Sam, still smiling after their positive visit with Hal. She was one of those odd spots in his life he wasn't sure whether he ought to feel guilty over. But he had no doubts when he sat in a room with her. As far as she was concerned, the only bad part of their strange friendship was the ghost of Steve and Sam's brief acquaintance with her past self. She didn't blame them for what she became. She didn't have any expectations. So long as they were there in that moment, and they were willing to stay in that moment with her, she seemed content. More than content. Steve dared think she might be happy, that their friendship meant something to her.

He turned the corner, and his spark of joy instantly went out under Bucky's dead-serious stare.

Sam sidled up behind Steve, absorbing the scene over his shoulder. "Hey, Barnes."

Ignoring the greeting, Bucky kept his eyes locked on Steve, and no one had any doubt who his words were for.

"She's is back in New York." No one needed clarification. "I want to see her."

"That might be tricky, pal," Steve said, taking a step into the room. Sam, probably worried about a fight breaking out, followed. "Hal's staying in the tower. We haven't really discussed it, but I get the idea Stark wouldn't be thrilled to have you visit."

"How'd you even know?" Sam asked. "Super secret spy stuff?"

Bucky transferred his deadpan stare to the Falcon. "She dreamed with me." And then back to Steve. "I don't care how Stark's kid feels about it. I need to see her."

As Sam choked on air, Steve switched to a different tactic. "Are you sure she wants to see you? I didn't get that impression. Even _you_ seemed happy to stay away from her until now. What's changed?"

"Nothing." Bucky's mechanical hand whirred, betraying the fierce grip he'd taken on the arm of his chair. "Everything. This isn't – I didn't plan any of this, Steve. I don't like that she's helping the Widow and your Hawk friend. That path – it always pulls you deeper than you expect to go. And I was right. When I saw her in the dream, realized she was in New York, I knew something had gone wrong." His glare redoubled in fury, daring Steve to lie. "And it did, didn't it? Whatever _life_ you claim she had, it's gone now."

Sam shifted, glancing between the two men cautiously. Steve held his ground. He met his friend's unspoken accusations head-on.

"She's tougher than you think, Buck. I wish you could see that. And if the course she chose didn't go as planned, I have faith that she'll find another road. Besides, you decided to go your own way. I don't think you get to have a say in her life choices anymore."

Bucky sucked in a quick breath, like Steve had slapped him. His eyes were bright and wounded. Steve winced.

Clearing his throat, Sam headed towards the kitchen. "I don't know about the Supermen, but I could really use a beer right about now. Would you guys like a beer? I'll get you a beer. Be right back. Don't… go anywhere… I guess." And with that graceful speech, he retreated to the kitchen.

With a sigh, Steve raked a hand through his hair and dropped into the chair adjacent to Bucky's.

"I'm going to see her, Steve," Bucky said. "I'll do it the nice way, through the front door and all, or I can climb in through one of those awful new skylights. I know Stark didn't plan them, and I bet his security is compromised."

Groaning, Steve scrubbed his face. "You really aren't giving me a choice, are you, buddy?"

"No."

 **A/N: Well look at that. I updated twice in one week. Technically, this chapter is two smaller chapters I decided to squish together (which explains that one awkward transition...). I'm coming to the end of my entirely together/pre-written stuff, so I shall need thy support! And, yes, I'm talking to you. No, no, not the cat (though all cats are, of course, welcome). I'm talking to you with the awesome face staring at the computer screen. Or the smart phone. Or even the dumb phone.  
**

 **Speak to me.**

 **Let's have a conversation.**

 **Ask your questions.**

 **I'll share my snark and unbridled use of exclamation points.**

 **Replies to Anons:**

 **b: Thanks so much for your review! While I'm sorry you're drained, I'm kinda proud that the writing had the power to inspire so much angst. As for Hal, don't worry. We've got some lovely stuff coming up. More Bucky? Your wish is my command... in a manner of speaking. Not sure about seeing from his POV, but he'll DEFINITELY be around. Thanks again, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter!**

 **Guest: Thank you for the review! More Bucky and Hal? Mwahahaha! Ehem, I mean, why, yes, I shall consider it. I may or may not be writing their next reunion scene right now. Ehem. Yes. Thanks again!**

 **Guest: Thank you for your review! An update! As requested! I pretty much had the exact same thought process when writing Thor. Not only does he just have a bombastic personality, but he has so _much_ in his head. As for Bucky/Hal angst... buckle up, my friend. Buckle. Up. Thanks again, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!**

 **Guest: Thanks for the review! The feels! Wednesday is here! Thanks again, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter!**


	5. Disappointment

**Disclaimer: I am sleepy and lacking in rights to Marvel.**

 _ **Chapter 5: Disappointment**_

Hal spent the evening making sketches and notes of the scraps she'd pulled from Ultron's mind. At first, she tried to maintain order, filling a notebook sheet by sheet. That didn't last long. She pulled each page free of the binding, constructing a visual brainstorm on the floor, the walls, and even part of the bed. Surrounded by ideas, she struggled to construct anything of value.

She rolled a pencil between her palms, sitting cross-legged in the center of the chaos. For reasons she couldn't quite grasp, she felt she'd found the root, the pulse of meaning in Ultron's rapid-fire logic. But she couldn't find the path. Everything branched out of… _what_? What was it? Where was Ultron going?

What was he planning?

Her headache tapped a staccato beat just behind her temples. Too many people below. Too many ideas inside. The pencil kept her grounded.

She stared at the quick sketch she'd made of the lake. It seemed a strange thing for Ultron to notice. It wasn't something he'd seen – she knew that. Alien as he was, Hal could tell the difference between places visited and information absorbed. This was nothing but data. And yet, it was a very pretty image. Maybe a painting. Carefully setting aside the pencil, Hal picked up the loose page. In her haste, she'd left smudges over the mountains, but it hardly mattered. This was only a flashcard. She had the original in her head.

A very small connection locked into place.

The original…

Setting aside the lake, she examined a sketch depicting the scenic European village. The image focused on the street. Cobblestones littered with crushed flowers and indecipherable newspapers dominated the foreground while buildings rose to fill the empty space. The sky could only be glimpsed in a small, murky puddle. Hal couldn't tell what kind of topography lurked beyond the stone and plaster shops.

Holding up both images, she weighed the elements of composition, following the gut instinct that these were not just data, but art. Neither image had much negative space. Each came packed with detail, too much detail, perhaps, to be realistic. Elements layered over each other, illuminated by the ambient light of a cloudy afternoon.

This wasn't just information. This was memory. Not Ultron's, but…

Hal grabbed a tablet and began a series of image searches. For the next hour, she scrolled past impressionist water lilies, fauvist landscapes, and realist towns. A few bore similar elements to Ultron's data, but none came close to matching either picture.

What if the artist wasn't well known? Entirely possible. The internet enabled any artist to distribute their work, regardless of public interest. Chances were, Ultron had found the image in connection to something else. Something bigger. Something with a _name_. But Hal had to work backwards, and the hunt could take years.

She did not have years. She did not even have weeks. Ultron could strike at any time. Steve and Sam had only distracted her, she knew, to make sure she was stable. No one had disturbed her work since they left. She almost wished someone would. Maybe another pair of eyes would help… Unless she was on a wild goose chase. Then those extra eyes would be a waste of precious resources.

Just as her hands began to cramp, she stumbled upon a thumbnail she was _certain_ came from the village painting. Following a series of links led her to an article about the painter. Although he remained anonymous to the public, he'd agreed to share his art with several galleries, and a small but dedicated fanbase developed. The only personal detail the author would share was a simple explanation of his anonymity: he was a Latverian refugee.

Hal sat back, digging through the bunker as she absorbed this latest development.

Latveria. An isolationist country locked in a turbulent corner of Europe that backed their claims of independence with heavy artillery of the nuclear variety.

A blink, and the scattered notes surrounding her became a web. Ambition and ideas brought the mess together into a loosely cohesive whole. It wasn't perfect. Wasn't detailed. But a plan traced from page to page, and Hal saw it.

She sprang to her feet, tromping across the crackling pages in her haste. Rosy gold sun poured in from the hallway windows as she stepped outside, but she was only a little surprised to find it was morning. Her mind churned with ideas, cobbling together strategies and counter measures as she stepped into the elevator.

Breathlessly, she exploded into the upper lounge. The news practically burned her tongue as she approached Stark, despite the wintery mood permeating the room.

He wore a tremendously deep frown, but Hal ignored it, launching her one question from halfway across the room.

"Stark, is Latveria on your list?"

Stark sent her a wary glance from the corner of his eye. "This might not be the best time, Hal…"

Tensions rippled through the room, but Hal didn't take time to analyze them. Her mission took priority. Determined to say her piece before anyone could start a fight, she pressed on. "The lake by the mountains? The town? Those images – they're paintings by a Latverian ex-pat. Ultron's after Latveria's nuclear missiles. I'm sure of it. He's going to attack us by proxy."

No one answered, and for a moment Hal stood there staring at Stark, confused. It wasn't great news, but the same tension still writhed through the team's emotions, like they were all waiting for the other shoe to drop. She'd missed something. Pushing her discovery to the side, she opened herself to the people in the room, feeling, listing, trying to figure out…

"Hal."

She froze.

That voice.

 _Winter._

Eyes still locked on Stark, she turned, only reluctantly turning her head when she had nothing left to move.

James Barnes waited behind her, patiently expecting her attention.

How? How had she missed him? She ought to be pleased that for once her own thoughts overwhelmed everyone else's, but she only felt betrayed by her talents. He'd surprised her. And she didn't know what to do. This was no accidental meeting. They couldn't brush by and chug along like they'd never crossed paths. James had clearly been _waiting_ for her. Now that she was paying attention, she could feel the low thrum of his concentration as it fixed on her eyes. She could feel his displeasure. His doubt. His relief. His _fear_. His memories of her, of _leaving_ , crashed over Hal.

Oh, god, she couldn't take this.

Whatever emotion passed over Hal's face, it was enough to galvanize several braver souls into action. And who should move first but the bravest soul in the room.

"I do not know what history lies between you," Thor said, taking a place behind Hal's left shoulder, "but my friend Stark has made it clear he does not desire your presence here, and the lady you seek does not, apparently, wish to see you."

It was just enough to prick Hal's pride, and pride was a wonderful antidote to fear. "Thanks, Thor, but I've got this."

"Sure," Stark said, glaring over her head at his unwelcome guest, "but it doesn't mean you're the only one who has beef with _Barnes_."

Hal ducked away from the gathering storm of testosterone at her back. "We have history, not _beef_. And I never said I didn't want to see him."

"Then, uh," Sam Wilson said, shouldered his way to the front the conversation. "How about you say hi?"

"Isn't it a little late for that?" Hal asked.

James subtly nudged Sam aside, assuming control. "I want to speak with you alone."

Hal heard a chorus of answers rise from the heroes surrounding her, and she shook her head, trying to find her own voice. "No. Yes. I mean – I need to tell Stark what I found first."

"Well, you kinda already did." Gathering that Hal did not, in fact, need his support, Stark wandered off toward the bar, talking as he went. "He is not staying in my tower. But if you want to have a convo before he goes, you're welcome to a broom closet."

"Stark. Please." Hal fought not to grind her teeth. "Shut up."

Stark saluted her with a fresh glass of tequila. "No." He downed the shot with a flick of his wrist. Toxic waves of gangrenous mourning oozed into his words, echoed in Hal's own open wounds. A hapless symmetry joined them, yet the silent gulf between them yawned wide as ever. Stark shook his head and smacked his lips as the alcohol burned down his throat. "But seriously, if you want to talk, you should do it now. I guess I didn't make an official no fly list, so that's my bad, but I'm gonna make one right now, and Barnes will be sitting pretty on top."

"We'll start making plans," Steve promised, leaning in to Hal's side. "But in the meantime, could you please talk to Bucky? He's being even more stubborn than usual." Moving even closer, he whispered, "I think he's worried about you."

In truth, the good Captain's mind was a riot of questions and concerns all his own. James might have stirred them to the surface, but they had the cold taste of old worries.

Hal pulled far enough back to offer him a skeptical eyebrow. "Just him?"

Smirking, Steve shook his head. "Well, I guess Sam's pretty concerned, too."

"Oh, well then. If Sam's concerned."

She moved to step around him, and was surprised by how close James had gotten. Damn. She'd forgotten how quiet he was, how easily the rhythm of his thoughts faded into the background.

"Hi." Apparently, it wasn't too late after all.

James slid his hands into the deep pockets of his jeans, and Hal enviously rubbed the pocket-less sides of her sweats.

"You have a place we can talk?" He sent a meaningful glance toward Stark. "Alone?"

Shrugging, Hal turned to the elevators. "More or less. Follow me."

He obeyed wordlessly, and neither breathed a word as the elevator answered their summons. Quite a few pairs of eyes kept them pinned in awkward limbo, and Hal could hear the thoughts behind those eyes just churning away. Steve and Sam were, of course, considering the worst possible outcomes of this encounter. Thor worried about Hal's safety. So did Barton; the tower's vent system popped into his mind. Stark thought out pointless times tables Hal recognized as his favorite diversion tactic, but his father's face ghosted between the digits. Banner tried desperately to mind his own business as he teased scenarios out of Hal's latest info dump.

And Romanoff – _Be careful_ , _uchitel'._ It almost sounded like a threat.

Hal snapped around, but the Widow had her eyes trained on the back of James' head.

Oh, of course. _Teacher_. Hal turned back to face the elevator, but not before Romanoff caught her looking. Hal colored under the scrutiny, but she was preoccupied with the flood of memories the Widow was trying so very hard to avoid. Hints and whispers picked up during car rides and quiet missions festered at the back of Hal's mind, glimpses of the Widow's past. The dark phantom with a red star. Cold heat and the friction of raw desire.

Hal closed her eyes. _She didn't want to know_.

After what felt like an eternity, the elevator doors opened, and Hal rushed out of the room like it was on fire. Really, her face was the only thing burning. Barnes noticed. He didn't comment. Maybe he put the pieces together. Maybe he didn't care to. Hal struggled to follow his example, distancing herself.

By the time they reached Hal's floor, she'd frozen her emotions in a protective shell of ice. Whatever Barnes had to say, she already knew she wouldn't like it. How could she? If he apologized, she wasn't sure she could forgive him. And if he didn't apologize, well, that was bound to be a messy fight.

All too soon, they'd arrived at her room.

Habit led her to sit on the bed as Barnes hesitated at the door, but Romanoff's memories still churned behind Hal's eyes. Standing, she went to stare out the window. It made a good escape from the bed. And eye contact.

Crowds swarmed below. Hal didn't blame them for her headache, though for once telepathy seemed like the simpler burden. James had taught her so much, and she'd all but imprinted on him like a duckling. Unfortunately, his greatest lesson left a psychological scar. Still, Hal learned it well. People were risky, and they had a habit of leaving when things got complicated.

"This isn't where I hoped you'd land."

Eyebrow climbing, Hal looked over her shoulder. "Yeah? It's because there's no picket fence, right?"

He growled. Not at her. But it still sent chills down the back of her neck.

"The spies, the missions – all of it. And now you're _here_. I didn't want this. Not for you."

"I'm a telepath, dumbass. I gathered."

"That's –" He bit off his reply, striding the rest of the way into the room so he could close the door. Raking his bionic hand through his hair, he glared at the papery brain-vomit coating the room. Hal didn't have to imagine what he saw when he examined the crumbs of Ultron's plans. He saw failure. He saw it everywhere, but most especially when he looked at her.

"This isn't your world, Hal. This is what Steve does. What the Widow does. But you're –"

"If you finish that sentence, I will make you regret it." She didn't need to see his patronizing stare to know what he thought of her threat, but she meant it. "Seriously. Don't."

Barnes lowered his chin. Folded his arms. A battle stance. "You shouldn't be here. We both know it."

"No. We don't."

"Be reasonable."

"Are you going to make me?"

"If I have to."

Enough was enough.

Dropping to her knees, Hal snatched her laptop off the bed and rolled underneath. Barnes cursed, falling to his knees as well, but Hal kept just out of reach. When he shifted, so did she. It was a never ending game, and it only took the Soldier a few seconds to weary of it.

Swearing in Russian, he hoisted up his side of bed.

Fueled by rage, Hal leapt into motion with timing made perfect by telepathy. Rolling to her knees, she used inertia to slam her laptop into the underside of the Soldier's jaw, cracking his teeth together as his head snapped back. He bit his cheek, and Hal felt the phantom jolt of pain, tasted the ghost of iron on her tongue. She scampered out of harm's way before the bed could fall and climbed to her a safe distance away. The bed dropped back into place, and the Winter Soldier turned around, eyes murderous.

Hal tossed aside her laptop and pointed to the trickle of red creeping from the corner of Barnes' lips. She wouldn't surrender, but she knew she couldn't win a protracted fight. Her point had already been made.

"I just gave the Winter Soldier a bloody mouth. Look me in the eye and tell me again that I don't belong here."

Without breaking eye contact, James spit out a mouthful of blood. James thought of their sparring sessions, when he'd taught her how to use the abilities she'd just turned on him. He thought of how they first met, when he put the fear of death into her at the point of a knife.

Hal refused to be daunted. "You made your decision when you left. I make my own decisions now. You're welcome to be my friend, like Sam and Steve. Even Romanoff. But you have no right to even pretend you have influence over my life, and if you can't respect my decisions, I hope you will respect my desire for you to back off."

Barnes stood tense, his expression twisted into something dark, and Hal groped through the miasma for his next move.

An instant before he sprang into action – ready to demonstrate _his_ side of the argument – the door swung open.

"Hal! Tony explained what happened, and I know your room's a bit – what the hell?"

Pepper Potts, queen of Stark's castle, stood with her hand on the doorknob and a bag from a fashionable boutique hanging from her arm. Her eyes went comically wide, and her mouth dropped open, working silently as she tried to phrase an appropriate question. The Soldier's fury died with a hiss, like fire under a bucket of water. Confusion mired his train of thought as he struggled with the abrupt change of scene. Working for Tony, Pepper seen all manner of things she'd sleep better without having witnessed, but as far as she knew, Hal didn't have a boyfriend. And the atmosphere in the room was anything but romantic. Was he an assassin? How had he gotten into the tower?

Satisfied that Pepper's timely arrival had interrupted Barnes' plans for her dismemberment, Hal slid over to embrace her friend. "My room's a bit of a mess. I know. I'm sorry. Brainstorming. Blame Stark. What's in the bag?"

Pepper, risking cautious little peeps at the glowering man a few yards away, carefully returned the hug. "I know you lost your old clothes, so I brought replacements. You are the same size, aren't you?" The practicality of such immediate concerns centered Pepper, and she sized up Hal's sweats with obvious dismay.

"Yeah. Library work doesn't really build bulky muscles. May I see?"

"Of course!"

Bucky looked between the two women, lost.

"Who's your – this?" Pepper asked.

"Bucky Barnes." Hal fluttered her hand toward the man she'd been brawling with moments before. "And this is Pepper Potts. She helped me get settled last time. Sorry your hard work was for nothing, Pepper."

Demonstrating why she was the real brains behind the Stark corporate machine, Pepper swallowed her misgivings and offered a hand to Barnes. "Pleased to meet you."

Likewise motivated by insistent ghosts of manners past, Barnes shook with his new acquaintance, although he was far from collected. "Likewise, ma'am."

Pepper returned to Hal for a comforting squeeze. "I was so sorry to hear about, well, everything. But I'm happy you're safe."

Finally reclaiming his train of thought, Barnes latched onto the new source of information. Hal could feel the gaps in his knowledge – he had the web of cause and effect in place, but he had no details, no events to flesh out the image.

"Everything?" he asked.

"Mercenaries went after the safe house," Pepper said skeptically, dubious that anyone Hal would allow in her room could know so little about her recent history. "When the power went down, she had to fight them off. Tony said he found two bodies."

"Two," James said. He looked at Hal."You took down two mercenaries."

"And a third at the office." Hal smiled. All teeth. "Not that I'm bragging or anything."

Pepper picked her way over the scattered notes and sketches to set her bag on the bed. As Pepper cleared a space to arrange her purchases, Hal watched Barnes slip from the room. The joy of triumph drained from her chest.

Barnes didn't look angry. Not confused, either. He only looked very sad and entirely defeated.

Hal allowed Pepper to sweep her up in a haze of dresses and slacks, recreating her collection of casual armor, but even the brightest colors seemed to fade under the light of the red star.

 **A/N: Up a little later in the day than usual, but I've been wrestling with this scene for ages, and I can only hope it came out well at this point. On another note, did anyone pick up the clear and obvious hint of which major Marvel character will soon be coming into play? Hmmmm? I'll be over here in my corner. Nerding.**

 **Thanks to all my lovely reviewers! You rock my fuzzy socks hard.**

 **By the way! 7Marbles has put together a lovely piece of fanart which helped carry me through the final edits of this chapter, and I highly suggest hunting 7Marbles down on Tumblr. I'd share a link, but FFN doesn't like them. Alas.  
**

 **And, speaking of art, I'm currently using the same cover for this story that I used for _Sin Eater_ , and I'd be up for suggestions/offers for new cover art. **

**LASTLY! I've teased a number of you about naming the Bucky/Hal ship that several of ya'll are cheering on. I officially challenge you to name your vessel! If I get enough suggestions, I can list my favorites at the end of the next chapter and put it to a vote.**

 **Replies to Anons:**

 **B: Oh. My. Word. I am so happy I wasn't drinking anything when I read this, because I would've snorted my beverage. I can just imagine you glaring into space. Yeah, Hal and James are messy, messy duo. Their relationship is complicated by the fact that not only can Hal pick his brain and find answers, but he's still failing to identify her as an individual capable of making her own decisions. He definitely has a few wires crossed. So Hal is not only dealing with the festering hurt of old wounds, but also actively fighting to establish herself in the current situation. The result? All kinds of drama. Thanks so much for the review!**

 **Guest: Thanks for the review! No, he wasn't happy. He is quite a sad puppy at present. Thanks again!**


	6. The Souffle Situation

**Disclaimer: I have a fridge full of leftovers, but not even a scrap of Marvel. Oh, well. At least I have Chinese.**

 **Warning: Hal has a potty mouth.**

 **Chapter 6: The Soufflé Situation**

Asking Stark for a new laptop was like confessing to shitting her pants. Same level of awkward. Especially since he refused to listen to her request in private.

"You want a new laptop? What happened to the last one? I thought you brought it with you."

"I did."

"Well? What happened?"

"I broke it."

"On what?"

"The Winter Soldier's face."

The barnyard chorus of snorts and barks that made up the Avengers' responses sent Hal scurrying from the room. Steve was more than a little shocked, and Sam was more than a little proud. Everyone else fell along a wide spectrum of amusement and curiosity. In the elevator, Hal flushed so hard she worried her face might explode.

She needed to get a grip.

At least James was gone. As she'd tried on her updated wardrobe, she dedicated part of her attention to following James' mind out of the building. She made absolutely certain he'd moved on before she went up to ask Tony for a new laptop, and she only asked because she was in a hurry.

While there wasn't a lot of information about Latveria available, Hal wanted to make sure she had all the facts at her disposal before she helped formulate a plan of action. And her computer had the easiest access those facts. Soon enough, Stark sent down a replacement, and Hal scanned through every political, historical, and economic reference she could find to Latveria and its current ruler.

Doctor Victor von Doom. Narcissist, scientist, despot, and rumored occultist. Doom seized control of Latveria a decade back, setting himself up as the supreme leader and "undisputed" monarch. However, from what Hal gathered, there had been plenty of dispute, some of it from within his own inner circle, which was why he preferred to defend himself and his country with legions of custom-build drones.

Although his mechanical brilliance was rivaled only by Stark, the man had some trouble with names. The capital of Latveria was Doomstadt, and its robotic defenders were Doom Bots. Somewhat uninspiring.

Still, Hal couldn't help seeing similarities between Doom and certain genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist. He was like Stark's evil twin, complete with opposing colors. Where Stark favored red and gold for his Iron Man suit, Doom wore silver and green – a complete set of armor with a mask he never appeared in public without. Neither man took outside assistance well, although Doom took self sufficiency to a new level.

Latveria did not have an open immigration policy. It didn't have a tourist policy, either. Doom kept his borders sealed, and only a handful of people had ever visited (or _left_ ) the country since Doom's reign began.

Telling this man that he needed help would be a nightmare. And he _did_ need help. If Ultron could slip out of the Avengers' fingers within hours of birth, Hal had no doubt, if he tried long enough and hard enough, that he could crack Latveria's infamous security.

And Hal finally understood the weakness Ultron had seen.

Whereas just about every other country on Earth allowed some degree of public internet access, Latveria did not. No one could even be sure if Doom had personal access. He had his own satellites, and his country was small enough that he could handle the majority of import and export deals personally. While Hal could make a list of human rights violations at the core of Doom's policies, her primary concern was far more immediate. In addition to keeping a terribly impressive collection of nuclear weapons, Doom had his own nuclear reactors. They powered the country, his mad science, and – probably – the creation of more nukes.

Every other country had fallen under the blanket protection of whoever (or whatever) was keeping Ultron away from potentially dangerous information and technology. More or less, anyway. But Doom didn't have that protection. Everything in his system was unique. And while that offered a degree of protection in the case of most hackers, it offered Ultron nothing but a diverting challenge.

Yeah. Doom needed help. No way in hell was he accepting shit from Stark, though. Would Stark tech be of any use, anyway?

Hal laced her fingers, flexing them until they cracked. Besides the ghostly illumination of her computer screen, the room had gone dark. Furniture appeared as faint outlines in the blue glow, and heavy shadows had eaten away the room's corners. Popping her shoulders, Hal looked at the bedside clock. She'd returned it to its place carelessly after it got knocked off in the struggle with James, and now it sat at a difficult angle to read. Groaning more than such a simple stretch demanded, Hal twisted around to see the time.

Late. Nice and late. With any luck, at least some of the Avengers would be in bed.

Staring dull-eyed at the computer screen, she groped out to the floors above and below, feeling out the super-friends. To her disappointment, not a single one had gone to bed. They had, however, scattered quite nicely, which made Hal's decision to procrastinate a little easier. Her eyes needed a break from the screen, and her thoughts needed time to percolate.

Slipping out of her room like a teen on her way to a rave, Hal padded down the hall to her faithful box of awkward situations: the elevator. She punched in the number for the floor with her favorite kitchen, but as the doors began to creep open, she realized Sam was still awake and wandering around the common room at the end of the hall. As a bubble of curiosity grew at the forefront of his thoughts, Hal smacked another button. Her second choice of kitchen wasn't quite so well stocked, but it was familiar. She'd just enjoyed an informal pizza party in the attached living area, actually.

Her hands led her through a familiar routine as she gathered the ingredients for a soufflé. If she hadn't mastered the dish, at least she'd managed the art of preparation. Gearing up for baking wasn't unlike preparing for battle. Clothing could make or break a cook, and Hal rolled up her sleeves with grim determination. A white apron volunteered from an over-stuffed drawer, and the belt tied in two neat loops around her waist. Her weapons came to hand – whisk, bowls, measuring cups. They made the heart of her army. She reviewed her battle plan as she assembled ingredients. Preheat the oven. Mix, whisk, mix again. Pour. Bake. Pray.

Ready for her mission, Hal set to work.

"Whatcha making?"

"Holy _shit!_ " Hal screamed, dropping an egg as she flailed.

Sam leaned in the doorway, smug as could be. There was no mistaking the twinkle in his eye as he swaggered into the room. "Did I surprise you? Seriously? Damn. I think I just earned a metal."

Blowing a raspberry at Sam and his infuriating smile, Hal bent to clean up the shattered remains of the egg. How could she be so careless? The innards spread as she worked, and just as she was about to start swearing, Sam took a knee beside her and mopped up the sticky leftovers with a handful of paper towels.

"Where's your mind at?" Sam asked, dumping the mess in the trashcan. "Must be pretty far away to get a rise like that."

"Oh, I'm right here." Hal glared at the batter, cracking another egg in righteous fury. "Soufflés aren't easy. They're my, I don't know, coping method. I guess."

Sam nodded. "They give you something to focus on. I get it."

Hal did her best to ignore him, but since he'd jarred her out of the Zen-like state of Soufflé-making, she couldn't seem to regain her concentration. At last she gave in and tried to make small talk.

"How's Steve?"

"Busy. Worrying, I mean. Barnes left with blood on his face and doesn't seem to want to be around anybody. But I guess you know about that."

Well, so much for small talk. "Yeah. I did put it there."

"And here I was worried for _you_. What did he say, anyway? It must've been something to get a computer in the face."

The batter did not look the way it should. The delay must've compromised… something. Oh, well. Hal didn't know what she'd do with herself if she ever got the damn thing right. She poured her uninspiring attempt into a dish and slid it into the oven. As she removed the oven mitts, she considered the simplest way to answer Sam's question.

"He doesn't approve of my life choices."

"Neither did Steve at first, but he didn't get to kiss your laptop."

Huffing, she relocated to the sitting area, within earshot of the oven timer. "He can't figure out what I am to him, so he thinks he has to be everything for me. Father. Brother. Probably grandfather."

"Lover?"

Hal sent him a sharp glance, but Sam sat at perfect ease on the couch beside her. The picture of innocence.

"No." She wouldn't humor him with any other details on that front. "He has this idea that I'm some soft, moldable thing, like I must have been when he first found me. This version of me. Whatever. He's always felt guilty that I even exist. That she died. The idea that my _talent_ drives me to be part of his world, that he designed me to fit that – he can't deal with it."

"The girl on the pedestal." Sam sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "It's not a new problem."

"No. But it's mine."

"And now I understand why you'd rather be making soufflé."

Hal laughed, feeling the atmosphere almost physically lighten as they changed topic.

"Hey," Sam said, "I've been thinking: have you ever trained to mirror someone?"

"Mirror? I'm not sure I know what you mean." Hal scooted forward, angling herself into the conversation.

"Like really focus on someone. Just one person. Reacting to their thoughts in real time."

Memories of the cabin cropped up. Engaging in endless battles she could never win, but slowly absorbing the Winter Soldier's skill. Her eyes broke away from Sam's, but only for a moment, and when she looked back he didn't acknowledge the shift. "Sort of."

Understanding more than she said, Sam grinned. "How long ago?"

"A while."

He popped to his feet, holding out a hand. "I've got an idea. Come on."

Cautiously, Hal accepted. Sam pulled her across the room to an open space near the windows. Letting go, he took his place opposite her and assumed a basic stance. Hal glanced at the chic décor littered around the room.

"I'm not sure this is the best place to spar…"

"Who said anything about sparring. Just read my mind and do what I do. Impress me, Hal. You did just let me sneak up on you…"

Challenge accepted.

Hal locked eyes with her challenger, letting her consciousness seep over the perimeter of his mind as she sank deep into his instinct and thought. Her feet found a perfectly mirrored stance, and when he swung back two quick steps, Hal was only a heartbeat behind. He clapped. The gap between decision and response grew narrower. A hop, a glide, two spins, and a knee to the floor. Hips rocking, hands waving, feet bouncing in and endless rhythm of steps. They moved together, perfectly in sync to a song only Sam – and Hal – could hear. Hal felt her face curve into a matching grin. Her breaths matched his. A few more minutes, and she wondered if her heart could follow the same beat.

Breathless, Sam stopped, laughing between pants for breath. Hal took a physical step back, extracting herself from her partner. But she, too, was smiling.

Still gasping for air, Sam put his hands on his knees. "That… that was…"

"Fun," Hal supplied.

"I was gonna… say… good, but… fun works."

Hal took a seat on the couch, tittering breathlessly. "No one's ever, you know, wanted me in their head like that. Working together. I learned how to fight, how to preempt enemy attacks. I've always been good at just going after information, whether I wanted to or not, but this – was it fun? Did you like it?"

Laughing even harder, Sam shook his head. "Yeah, babe, it was good for me."

Hal rolled her eyes, but she couldn't pretend she didn't feel some gleeful satisfaction welling up inside. For once, her talent hadn't been invasive. Hadn't been a weapon. Only her dreams with Bucky, which she had yet to fully understand, could claim the same. It made her hope that Bruce was right, that she had a gift. She just didn't understand it. Yet. Maybe someday.

She sat back and enjoyed breathing for a few minutes.

Mirroring, Sam had called it. She'd always had a thing for mirrors. From the first days in the frozen north, when she discovered her reflection and James teased her about it. But there had been a connection, some special understanding with the ghost of herself.

Now if only that could be usef- _Oh_. Oh, _right_. Now, _there_ was something.

Hal rocketed to her feet and was halfway to the door before Sam could even yelp.

"Where are you going?" he asked. "Your soufflé isn't done!"

"Fuck the soufflé," she shouted back. "I have a plan."

 **A/N: I apologize for the shamefully short chapter. I've hit that place again where I have the next couple chapters scattered around in two page chunks of unconnected scenes/dialogue, but this is all I could get together in a timely fashion. That said, I'd really like to make it up to you guys in another special Wednesday update, but I can't make any promises. Life opened a big ol' door for depression last week, and there was a day or two I couldn't even get out of bed, so I've been slacking quite a bit in the For Fun Writing Department.**

 **No Bucky in this chapter? Alas! Next chapter there will be lots (of Bucky, of plot development, of snarky sassiness...).**

 **Thanks to the reviewers/followers! The anons came out in force last week, I must say.**

 **Replies to Anons:**

 **Guest: Yay, thanks for reviewing! I wasn't sure if his reactions would be hit or miss, so I'm really thrilled you enjoyed them. Although he's an emotive soul, he has a tendency to try to solve a lot of things physically that he should probably try fixing with his words first... Thanks again! Hope you enjoyed the latest chapter!**

 **Harper: Thank you so much for the review! I laughed so hard when I read this. It was delightful. I think you are the first reviewer to leave a hashtag in their comments. Their relationship is definitely going to be a roller coaster of discovery/screw ups. I hope you enjoyed the latest step in Hal's development!**

 **B: Thank you very much for reviewing! Yeah, poor kicked-puppy-Bucky. Or face-smashed-Bucky. Same thing. We will be getting a LOT of Bucky in the next chapter, I can safely promise that. And, yes, there shall be angst. Thanks again, and I hope you enjoyed the latest chapter!**

 **Guest (Sept. 24): Thank you for the review(s), and BAHAHAHA! Why, yes, I'm very excited for chapter 27 as well. Thanks again!**


	7. Hatching Plans

**Disclaimer: I have a half-empty bottle of Kraken and not a single piece of Marvel's property.**

 _ **Chapter 7: Hatching Plans**_

The elevator door opened to reveal an empty chamber, and Hal stepped inside with purpose. Sam didn't reach the doors before they closed. Just as well. This was a conversation Hal would rather begin on her own. It would be difficult enough without a chorus of opinions confusing the issue. There would be time enough for that later.

No one joined her as she rose to the desired floor. She stood alone with her thoughts, chewing her lip and shifting between feet as she reasoned out the best approach for the impending debate. Her eyes locked on the ceiling, like she could make it go faster with the force of her vision.

And then she arrived. She suddenly wished the trip had been longer.

Maybe she shouldn't have stared so hard at the ceiling.

Even from the end of the hall, Hal could hear Stark's beloved AC/DC wailing through the drywall and glass. Sometimes, she wondered if he left weaknesses in the soundproofing purely to annoy his friends and colleagues.

The music redoubled in her mind, echoing itself as it careened over Stark's thoughts. It made her smile. At least he was in a good mood. Or as good a mood as he could be in, considering the circumstances. He was up to his elbows in a project Hal _knew_ he didn't want her to see, so when she got to the laboratory door, she made due with knocking. It would be a miracle if he could hear her over the music, but…

The hall went silent. Hal could feel eyes on her. Drawn by training and second hand impressions of a portable security monitor, she looked for a camera. It was Stark, so it would be small, but fairly obvious. Not above the door. Too direct. But maybe – yes. In the corner. Above and to the right.

Smiling for the camera, she waved.

The door breathed open, and Tony Stark's best frown appeared before her. Hal could see that, behind him, his workspace was suspiciously clean. She didn't press the issue. Another fish was begging to be fried.

"Hi."

Stark crossed his arms. "What's up, Miss Cleo?"

"May I come in?" Waving at the tell-tale absence of work on his desk, Hal smirked. "Unless you're in the middle of something?"

Rolling his eyes, Stark took a step back to allow her passage. She was careful not to touch him as she slipped by. He felt like his personal space was violated already. No need to antagonize him.

The lab wasn't designed for company. Hal could just _feel_ that the two lonely stools had owners. Her ass did not belong. And while Stark may play up his careless lounging, it didn't take a genius to know sitting on the tables – holographic or otherwise – was out of the question. Going for the least intrusive option, Hal found a simple counter to lean against, mirroring Stark's folded arms as she settled in for the long haul.

Stark wandered to his primary desk, one eyebrow quirked as he watched her. Letting her little smile morph into a more honest expression, Hal began.

"I have a solution."

Stark halted, coming to lean against his own counter as his head tilted, betraying his interest. "I'm listening."

"It isn't perfect," Hal confessed, "but I don't think our problem has a perfect solution. Ultron isn't just a program now, he's a person. Actual artificial intelligence." She shrugged. "People are messy."

As he frowned in concentration, Stark's fingers wandered, seemingly of their own accord, to a nearby pen. "And your solution? Is it, messy?"

Hal let her arms drop. She grasped the rim of the counter at her back, rubbing her palms over the edge as she navigated the debate. "Well, it's not really a solution." Terms he would understand came to her, cherry-picked from the fringe of his consciousness. "It's more of an aggressive defensive measure. I don't think there's a hacker alive who's fast enough to stop Ultron. Maybe someday you can put together an effective anti-virus to keep him out of public systems, but that will take time, and we don't have it."

"I'm not hearing a solution in any of this –"

"Sorry." Hal couldn't let him start to doubt before she'd even gotten to the ugly part. "It's just – I know you're not gonna like it."

He set aside the pen. Pressed his hands flat against the table. "Hit me."

Fine. If that was what he really wanted…

"I want to go to Latveria."

"You have lost your mind."

Hal shook her head. "Just hear me out. From what I understand, every other country is defended by – something – that Ultron is having serious problems getting around. Maybe it's a program, maybe it's a coder. Whatever it is, it's working. But Latveria isn't under that protection. Because of Doom's different tech or internet policies, or whatever, Ultron thinks Latveria is the most vulnerable target. So if he goes in, we just have to cross our fingers and hope Doom somehow predicts the threat and magically guesses how to firewall the bastard.

"Or I could go, play the canary in the mine. If Ultron's there, I'll know, and a little warning might be the difference between peace in our time and World War III."

Stark took the suggestion better than she was expecting, but she could still feel his misgivings churning away. His answer almost surprised her.

"You realize canaries died in mines, right?" A wry smirk lifted the corner of his mouth, and Hal reciprocated.

"I never said it was a perfect metaphor – but I know Doom's as likely to shoot me on sight as accept my help, so… maybe not such a bad metaphor after all."

"Yeah, and that's why this is a bad idea."

"Yeah," Hal said, mimicking his tone, "but it's still our only idea."

Stark snatched up the pen again and set it tapping. He glowered at nothing, looking for a reason to disagree.

Hal threw him a line. Experience had taught her that guilty people rarely allowed perceived innocents to join the fray. Stark couldn't make himself like her, and he felt bad about it. He thought about Pepper's stories, about her lost memories, about all the things that really had no bearing on their conversation.

It was high time Hal made some corrections to her image.

"Hey, it was my idea. Don't go looking for reasons to kill my moment."

"You read my mind," he snarked.

"What can I say? Your poker face is shit."

He flashed some teeth, but it wasn't really a smile. "I hear Doom has a great poker face. Iron, or something like that."

"Doesn't matter if I have one, too. Matters even less if I can get him to underestimate me, which, considering my track record, should be pretty damn easy."

Stark sniffed. "I never underestimated you."

Hal deadpanned. "Yeah, because you aren't underestimating my skills at all right now."

Stark conceded her point. "That's fair. Painful. But fair. So, tell me, Miss Cleo, how are you planning on getting Doctor Gloom to open the front door for you?"

"Honesty."

Laughing, Stark shook his head. "Honesty is not a plan."

"Neither is 'Hulk, smash,' but that seems to have worked pretty well in the past."

"Stop it."

She didn't have to ask, but she _wanted_ to. A smile crept over her face. "Stop what?"

If looks could kill, Stark's glare would have turned her into a smoking crater of regret. "Cute."

"You wouldn't be the first to think so."

He stabbed a finger at her like she was a naughty dog. "No."

"No?"

"This is my lab. I am the guy with the one-liners. Out. Go sleep. Or bake. Or do whatever the hell you usually do. Just…" he flapped his hands. "Out."

"And my plan?"

He hesitated. "We'll discuss it with the rest of the team in the morning. Give me some time to – fine-tune it."

It wasn't everything she'd hoped for, but it was more than she'd expected. "Thank you, Tony."

"Out."

.O.O.O.

Bucky stood in a fall of ashes, looking up at a charred grey sky. The flakes clung to his eyelashes like snow and left smudges on his uniform. The dead plain spread to the horizon, passing into the infinite. And yet, nothing existed he couldn't see, touch, or hear. The universe was immediate.

He knew he was dreaming, but that only made it all the more real. His fears grew out of the ash, perfectly intangible. Monsters he couldn't fight. Visions he could never erase.

Death pooled at his feet. Blood curled around his boots, trailing away in smeared words. The red wound back in cursive accusations ( _Too slow -Too broken - Too late._ ), winding over the broken pavement between his feet and Hal's broken body. Even in death, her curse revealed his failings.

Her eyes were open. Glassy. A speck of ash stuck to her left iris, and her limp jaw hung to the side, pulling her face into a confused sneer. No breath stirred her chest. No warm buzz touched the back of Bucky's thoughts.

She was beyond saving.

As he accepted the inevitable truth bleeding at his feet, it grew even worse. The corpse twitched, jerking to grab at air as the jaw snapped shut. Teeth cracked together. Dull eyes fixed on him, heedless of the ash impeding their view. A bloodless smile grew. Her voice rang clear and strong as life.

"You let me down, James." Mocking. Sad. Resigned. "One last time." The corpse sighed, and the breath carried up a mouthful of blood. It dripped off her chin, leaving dark stains on her otherwise immaculate red dress. And she still smiled. "But I guess we both knew it was coming."

Bucky had nothing to say. He pressed his lips together, afraid of what might escape if he didn't, and he closed his eyes, afraid of what else he might see if he didn't. The corpse smell pervaded his senses. He could hear more blood pattering onto the dress.

Hal was _alive_ , he told himself. She was out there in the waking world, living, breathing, getting into trouble. But her death was so familiar, such an intimate pain he remembered and expected. He kept the wound fresh, teasing it like a cut on his lip until it bled, and bled, and scarred – ready to tear again. He'd given her more of himself than he meant to during those long months in the cabin and the cheap motels. And she'd given right back. He carried her with him, a golden door he kept closed for fear of his own selfishness.

He'd failed her. He'd stolen her. He'd corrupted her.

But she refused to see that, and now that she'd finally found her feet, she stood just where Bucky always feared to find her.

One day, someone would pay for his sin. He would not let it be her. He would be damned before he left her to fight alone.

He woke to find the blank ceiling staring down at him. White. Clean. Impossibly simple.

.O.O.O.

A new day in Avengers Tower brought sunshine, coffee, and a seriously heated debate. The Avengers met with Hal to discuss their next step after a good (short) night's sleep, and Hal noted Sam's absence just about the same time she noticed Steve's presence.

After that, she could only focus on the debate.

"No offense," Clint said, eying Hal across the lounge Stark chose for their meeting, "but throwing yourself in front of the bus isn't going to do all that much."

Hal snorted. "I'm not throwing myself in front of the bus."

"She would have back-up," Steve agreed, grudgingly. "I don't like it, but we've all taken stupid risks."

"It isn't a stupid risk!" Hal threw up her hands. "You guys make it sound like I'm suicidal."

Clint stared her down. "Well, yeah. Only suicidal people try to sneak _into_ Latveria."

"Not sneaking," Hal grumbled, folding her arms.

Quick to stop her partner from pissing off the telepath, Natasha directed the argument back to the heart of the matter. "Even if the plan could use some work, we can't ignore Hal's insight on Ultron's next move."

Clint sat back, twirling an arrow as Hal savored her victory.

"Has anyone tried contacting Doom?" Banner asked, ever the voice of reason.

" _If_ we agree to send Hal, we'll have to," Stark said. "If there's anything Doom hates more than a party, it's an _unexpected_ party."

"Nice reference." Hal cast an eye around the room. "Now for the big question: who gets to play Gandalf to my Bilbo?"

Wincing, Banner offered an apologetic smile. "Well, I'm out of the running."

Of course Hal understood _that_. The Big Guy could turn anything into an international incident. A shame, though. She wouldn't mind getting to know the man better. He'd reached out to her, puzzling through the physical ramifications of her abilities without request or provocation, and she hadn't forgotten that. Maybe they could discover more by working together – more about her telepathy – more about his other self. They both had tools to help the other, and that was an excellent basis for an alliance.

A rumble in Hal's brain preempted the next speaker.

"I would gladly volunteer my services," Thor said. "From what you have said, it would seem Hal will have need of a companion who can remove her from Doctor Doom's territory in haste should matters… get out of hand."

But there were other issues to take into account, and fortunately, Stark was several steps ahead. "Asgardian technology in Doom's guesthouse – probably a bad idea."

"We also need to take into consideration who Doom is least likely to object to visiting his country." Steve sat at attention, posture straight, but he was dangerously close to growing a Unibrow of Focus. "I'd be glad to go, but with my reputation…"

"…It would give Doom second thoughts." Hal nodded. "Besides, if Ultron keeps to his current pattern, he'll cause a lot of nasty diversions to keep you occupied. I mean, I'd be happy to have you with me, but I think the rest of the team will need you."

"What about Sam?" Romanoff asked. Her gaze flicked between Hal and Steve, pulling them into a smaller ring of conversation. A planning committee within a planning committee. If they could come to an agreement, they could easily sway the rest of the team. She nodded to Hal. "You know each other, and it would be best to send you with someone you trust."

Steve was nodding along, his thoughts echoing the Widow's. "He can also get you out quickly if things go awry. I'm sure Stark can put together some kind of harness for long range flights. Just in case."

It was a good choice, and Hal anticipated the suggestion before she even picked up the others' thoughts. Sam – good, reliable, quick-witted Sam. Honestly, he was a great choice. She did know him. She did trust him. And damn if he couldn't haul ass when he needed to. His ability to handle delicate conversations better than some other Avengers went unspoken, but it weighed heavily in his favor. If she was going to survive her time in Latveria, she needed to be able to rely on her partner's discretion. Picking fights was never a great character trait, but in Doom's territory, it would be fatal.

With a clap, Stark demanded the room's attention. "So. Hal and Wilson for Team Doom. Unless anyone has a better idea? Any idea. A passing fancy. Anything." Hands still pressed together, he examined the surrounding faces. "Nothing? Fine." He surged to his feet, whipping out a tablet to begin work on a new sketch. "I'll get the gear ready. Shouldn't take more than a few hours. Steve, you and Hal can deal with sending a calling card to the Dark and Demented Dictator of Doom. And let Wilson know he's won the lottery. I'm busy."

"Sure thing," Steve said. As Stark vanished into the elevator and the rest of the team began thinking about their own preparations, Steve came up to Hal with a smile and a swagger. "Wanna go tell Sam the good news with me?"

"We'll see how good he thinks it is." Hal stuck her hands in her pockets, taking a deep breath as she reflected on Sam's talk the night before. "Sam mentioned you were – uh – kinda busy last night. How did…" She scratched the back of her head. "How did that turn out?"

Steve's eyes grew fractionally harder. Hal felt his disapproval, and it was resolute as iron. But he also understood her reasons, or wanted to, at least. Once upon a time, he'd been the squirt picking fights in alleyways. It was just hard for him to see Barnes as anything but his victimized hero.

Hal felt her own expression soften. Her shoulders dropped. Her hands wandered out of her pockets. Steve realized there was more to the conversation than he was saying with his words, and for a moment, he froze. Like a stranger had touched his shoulder and he didn't know whether to shake or punch in response. Then, like magic, he warmed. Although his face warped under a truly uncomfortable smile, he tried to reach back. After a fashion. He pushed images to the forefront of his thoughts, loudly thinking her name as he nudged them forward. It felt awkward and obvious, but not even James had been so comfortable with her telepathy. He'd learned to deal with it, but after such a limited acquaintance, Steve was already learning to adapt.

It must be why he made such a good leader.

Beaming, Hal investigated his offering. She saw Barnes lying on his bed, his flesh arm flung over his face. His chest rose and fell evenly under his hoodie, but he often regulated his breathing consciously, so that didn't necessarily mean he was sleeping. Still, he was safe. He was well. And it didn't look like he'd broken anything in the immediate vicinity. Steve's emotions rippled through the image – relief,muted grief, even a wry trace of humor.

Hal studied Steve's face, wishing she could answer in kind. To be _heard_ as she heard the rest of the world… Words would have to do. "All's well that ends well?"

Fully softened, Steve smiled back. "Yeah."

"Good. That's good. Where's Sam?"

Steve shifted. "At home."

"Ah." Hal blinked. "Home. With…?"

"Yeah."

"Ah."

Why, oh why, couldn't one damn errand be simple for once? Steve was inviting her into his home. Her mission with his literal wingman would concrete in his mind the lopsided polygon of friendship between her, Bucky, Sam, and himself. While it would take her a little longer to blindly rely on such bonds, it was something she desperately wanted. Did she dare risk the wrathful puppy eyes of Bucky Barnes to get what she wanted?

Of course she did.

"Sure." She tossed off her misgivings with a shrug. "Let's go. I can't wait to tell Sam that we're eloping to Latveria."

Steve laughed. "My congratulations to the bride and groom."

"Condolences might be more appropriate."

.O.O.O.

Hal burst into the apartment a step behind Steve, feverishly scanning for James.

He was in his room. Conscious, but not excessively social.

So long as she moved quickly, Hal could work with that. This was neither the time nor the place for her next showdown with the Winter Soldier, no matter how impressive her bodyguards' biceps were.

"Hey, Sam!" she called, ignoring the stab of recognition from James' thoughts. "I'm kidnapping you and we're running away to Latveria. Get packing."

Sam held up his hands and laughed. "Whoa, whoa. Latveria? Slow down." He looked to Steve for assistance. "What's going on?"

Hal bounced in place. "I'm going to Latveria to save the world, and you're gonna be my traveling buddy."

Folding his arms, Sam raised an eyebrow, bemused. "You're going to save the world? What am I going to do? Should I bring a book? Please explain. I'm confused."

"She can sense Ultron the way she senses us," Steve said, assuming control of Sam's torture – and ending it. Killjoy.

"Yeah. I got that. How does this involve Latveria?"

Hal seized back the explanation. "Ultron wants Doom's nukes. Doom has shitty internet security. I'm going to be a replacement firewall."

Sam stopped. Stared. Shook his head. "Last night. Your plan. _This_ is your plan?"

"It's partly your fault," Hal said. Flouncing her way to the couch, she dropped into the cushions, leaving plenty of room for her new partner to join her. Once he sat, she continued. "When I was mirroring you, I realized I could do the same thing with Ultron. If I can sync up with him during an attack, I can cock block the shit out of his hack." She held up her hands. "And even if Doom doesn't let me touch his computers, I can still light up the Bat-Signal when Ultron drops into the system."

In his room, Bucky stirred, attentive. Hal began to fidget and glanced towards the door. If – when – Barnes decided to join the group, she wanted to make sure she had a clear path of egress. Steve caught her looking and offered a very small frown. Absorbed in the details of this latest mission, Sam didn't notice how Captain America subtly shifted to block Hal's escape route. He also failed to notice the petulant glare and discrete peep of tongue Hal offered in rebuke. He _most certainly_ didn't notice when his idol returned the gesture.

Sam, of course, had questions, and Hal made every effort to answer as succinctly as possible.

"When is this supposed to happen?"

"A few hours. Stark needs to build a thing."

"What thing?"

"A passenger harness."

"For my wings?"

"Yeah."

"You think it will go south, then?"

"Probably."

As Sam continued to tease out the details, James became increasingly more aware of the conversation being held a room away. Hal felt him listening, heard the gears in his head turning, and she didn't like the solutions his thinking machine spat out.

She looked helplessly at the wall of muscle blocking her escape, and knew he would give her no quarter. He'd brought her in to talk with Sam, but until they'd exhausted every topic of conversation, covered every nuance of the plan, he would keep her there. He still hoped that Bucky would join them in the living room. It wasn't that he wanted a confrontation. He just dreamed of reparation between friends. Even if he couldn't fix the world, he could fix this little corner of it.

Hal, personally, had some doubts. Some very serious doubts involving convoluted histories and a laptop (applied directly to the face).

James' bed creaked audibly as he rose, echoing a sense of newly resolved purpose. Hal could hear the physical sound layered over the roiling subtext of Barne's thoughts as he moved toward the door. Hal lifted a knee, curling her arms around it in an effort to protect herself from the oncoming storm, and Sam finally picked up on her sense of urgency. His eyes flicked to Bucky's door just as it swung open.

James stood in the entrance. Calm. Determined. And he managed to hold all three pairs of eyes trained on him as he said: "I'll go."

 **A/N: As you probably noticed, there was no mid-week update. There are a few good reasons for this, including job applications, time management and a reader base better suited to regular weekly updates. That can change, but for the time being I'm going to hold back from making iffy promises I might not be able to keep. Before anyone panics at the mention of alcohol after the confessions of past weeks' depressive swings: don't worry. I drink infrequently and save it as a social pleasure. There was much pleasure last night, which is why this update comes about 12 hours later than I usually aim to publish. My friends made the mistake of allowing me to mix the drinks (I don't believe in proper ratios of alcohol to mixer...), and we had a grand time annoying the one sober (and only male) member of the group (my brother - poor soul) as we watched (tried to...) _Age of Ultron_. It was a great break and I am now freshly energized by the film and assorted shenanigans to charge onward! **

**TO LATVERIA!**

 **Replies to Anons:**

 **b: Thank you very much for the review! I wound up ending this chapter a little earlier than I expected, but at least there was a sizable amount of Bucky in this chapter, and next chapter there will be even MORE. It will begin with a certain conversation... Thanks again!**

 **Guest: Thanks for the review! I do feel much better, thank you. What did you think of the plan?**

 **Guest: Thank you so much for the review! Oh my word, yes, they so have a bromance. I hadn't thought of it in those terms yet, but - YES.**

 **Jen4: (Due to messages being disabled, I shall have to reply to you here, dear) First off - thanks for the review and the very nice compliment! As for music - so far any songs I've incorporated, including "Stormy Weather" are songs I already knew and just found appropriate. However, I always look back over my swing and jazz favorites when I'm going to be writing for Bucky, because it helps me get into his frame of mind. They make great background music for writing.**


	8. Field Trip

**Disclaimer: Would you like some tea? I have some. Oh, you want Marvel rights? Alas, poor friend, no dice.**

 ** _Chapter 8: Field Trip_**

James rolled two steps forward, firmly planting himself in the discussion.

"I'll go," he repeated.

"Why?" The question exploded past Hal's lips. Uncensored. Hard. But the question wasn't hers alone; it bounced between Sam and Steve's thoughts, begging for an answer.

And when James answered, he answered them all.

"I'll go."He looked at Hal. Steve. Sam. A tight leash yanked back his emotions, and he approached the discussion practically, ready to deal in facts. "I've snuck into Latveria before."

And he had. The shadows of previous a mission flickered through his brain. A knife in the back and a rain of hot blood over cold snow. All from a previous life that forever tainted the present. The Winter Soldier. No one asked him to explain.

"It's more than that, Buck," Steve said, trying to break the facts to him gently. "This will be… delicate."

"I have history with the country, not Doom," Barnes said. "He was only a child. Powerless. Irrelevant to the mission."

"People have been known to hold grudges on behalf of their countries," Sam argued.

Bucky's face went still. "He wouldn't hold a grudge. No one would. Not for that sin."

They all had so many questions, but no one was going to ask.

"What about the rest of the team?" Steve asked. "We agreed Sam should go."

"Somehow, I doubt I was considered in this debate." Not even the will of the Avengers could stand against James Barnes and his stubborn, stubborn self.

"It's still… you see…" Steve fought with his conflicting roles as friend and Captain, trying to politely explain the situation without mentioning the elephant in the room. "It's just…"

"What Steve's trying to say is that I have to trust you," Hal finally snapped.

Sam reached to rub her shoulder. "Hal –"

She shrugged him off. "Everything could blow up in our faces. We'll be at Doom's mercy, and if he decides to rescind his welcome – if he even offers it in the first place – I'll have to depend on whoever's with me. Ultron might attack in person if he catches on. Maybe Hydra has an old sleeper agent hidden in Doom's dystopia. I don't know. No one does . If you're with me, I have to trust you."

Just like that, there were only two people in the conversation. James caught Hal's gaze and held it, demanding her full attention. They might as well be back in the mountains for all their teammates matter. Hal's nostrils flared, and the septic heat of old wounds warmed her temper. Opposite her, James stood, just as determined.

"And do you?" he asked.

"Of course I do." It felt too much like surrendering, so she added, "I've seen what you can do. I was one of your missions, remember?"

Shaking his head, Sam shuffled his hands, arranging and rearranging them in his lap. "We can both go. The more the merrier, right?" He worried about Hal. He worried about the mission. No clean answers presented themselves.

Bucky turned his soul-freezing gaze on Sam. "Steve needs a wingman."

Hal didn't need to be a telepath to read the history, the _implication_ of those words. The trust. The unspoken offer. She held her breath as Sam weighed his options. The silence lingered beyond comfort, but no one pressed him. Just as she'd weighed her desire to avoid Barnes with her wish to develop friendships, Sam weighed the benefits and consequences of his action. Unlike Hal's choice, however, he wouldn't suffer the consequences alone.

Before he answered, he looked to Hal. They both knew she didn't need words to see what was in his head. He wanted her opinion, her permission, before he even considered making a commitment. Nodding, Hal accepted his choice.

Anticipation and distant fears clogged the air as Sam turned back to the Winter Soldier. A violent history sat between them, stymieing their mutual efforts toward connection. All they shared were people, the most unstable links in the history of alliances.

"If you're sure."

James didn't need to think about it. "I'm sure."

Sam glanced again at Hal, checking her compliance, and she accepted her fate with a nod. As the Falcon slowly meandered to Steve's side, Hal laced her fingers together over her head and sighed.

"This is gonna be fun."

.O.O.O.

"For the record – and just for the record, because apparently my opinion doesn't mean shit – this is a really bad idea." Stark set aside the harness for the Falcon's wings, sneering at it, like the contraption was to blame for the sudden change of plans. "And I don't approve."

Once again, Hal found herself in Stark's lab, sharing information he'd rather not hear. This time, however, she wasn't giving him the choice. He knew it.

He didn't like it.

Studying a screen full of readings she only half understood from the turmoil of Stark's mind, she continued her endless search for a chair. "Too late. Steve's sending the message to Doom now. He has both our names. He's expecting us. And only us. Changing the plan now would end in disaster."

"He doesn't fly, Hal. He can't get you out as quickly if things go sour."

If she didn't know better, she might think he was concerned.

"He can't fly," she said, picking up a pen to roll between her fingers, "but he has skills Sam doesn't. If we get into trouble, he can get us out. He's good at that."

"Hal." She stopped. Found him staring at her. "You sure?"

Sure of what? He couldn't expect her to answer that question, not in detail. Not out of context.

"I'm sure he's the best man for the mission."

He'd been hoping for more. Too bad.

Setting aside the pen, she smiled. "Anyway, at least you know he'll be out of your hair. No sneaking. No stalking. No hanging on Steve's heels like a lost puppy."

Stark shrugged. "He's banned from the tower, anyway."

"Yeah, because that would totally stop him."

Data flickered over the screen, rushing over the three-dimensional blueprints of Falcon's wings. An electronic chime pinged. It didn't stop. Stark went pale, and Hal stepped forward, reaching unconsciously to find the problem. It was there, in Stark's mind, and splashed all over the screen in a cipher only a genius could read.

Ultron had made his next move.

Stark looked at her. Hard. He must know that she'd slipped. But he didn't call her out. He even pretended not to notice.

"We're out of time. Ultron just hit one of my warehouses. South Korea. Full of drones."

Drones like the broken prototypes Ultron used to destroy the upper levels of Avengers Tower. With a warehouse full of them… "He's building an army."

Of course Ultron would have a plan B. The question was whether the drones were meant to be a distraction or if they would soon rush Latveria's borders. Stark's dark stare informed her as clearly as his raging thoughts that he'd followed the same logic.

"Looks like you're going on your field trip ahead of schedule. Find Imperator Furiosa and get Hawkeye ready – he's flying. Wheels up in ten minutes."

.O.O.O.

They didn't waste time with good-byes. The rest of the Avengers saw them off, but there were no hugs, no last minute advice. An urgent mission just became an immediate crisis of life and death. If they arrived in Latveria after Ultron, it could very well mean a world war. At the very least, hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of lives would be lost.

They didn't even wait for clearance to enter Latverian airspace. They altered their destination. Hawkeye would set down the quinjet half a mile from the border, and after that it would be up to Hal and James. Unless Steve sent a nice little message relaying Doom's permission, they'd have to cross the mountainous border alone, descending from a region cold enough to be locked in perpetual winter. And there was no promise of a warm welcome.

Hal tugged on the straps of her harness as she reflected on how quickly her life changed. It seemed transitions could never be slow. They rushed in with the fury of a tidal wave, pulling the remnants of whatever life she'd had before out to sea. Gone forever.

Two weeks ago, she'd been worrying about mold in the lowest level of the archive.

As the Atlantic sped along below, Hawkeye cast a surreptitious look over his shoulder at his second passenger. Hal, in the co-pilot's seat, watched him with a raised eyebrow. Clint straightened in his seat, returning his attention to the controls.

"So. Pretty abrupt change of plans."

Hal looked away and studied the clouds. "I guess so. But, to be fair, it was a pretty abrupt plan overall."

The engines continued to hum. Clouds grew across the horizon, rushing to meet them, and the sunlight gradually died as they flew into the weather system off the coast of northern Europe. As the quinjet shivered in the tempestuous currents, Hal remained steadfast.

At last, Clint tried again. "Look, I don't know you that well, but I'm worried about –" he indicated the back, where James sat, brooding, " – this."

"You mean James?"

"If that's what you want to call him." Barton used the switches and levers at his command as an excuse to ignore her, checking a dozen systems they both knew required no special handling. The flashing lighting, however, made good cover for his pretense. "You know him. You know all of us. But seeing inside someone's head doesn't mean you can always predict them."

"Of course not. That would be boring."

A tiny smirk flickered over Clint's face, but it vanished as soon as it appeared, smothered by his overwhelming doubts.

"Just so long as you know what you're doing."

Hal crossed her arms, finding her own excuses to look elsewhere. "Like I said. That would be boring."

The storm followed them, making an already tense ride all the more strained. Hawkeye didn't try to plant any more words of caution in Hal's fertile paranoia, but he'd already given her more than enough to think about. As had Stark. While she'd expected Clint to give her some stiff advice during the flight, Stark's comments genuinely worried her. Their relationship was weird. Unpredictable. Unsteady. And they had never trusted each other. Stark jumped at shadows and held faith in nothing but his own intellect, and Hal knew she cast a very scary shadow. They weren't enemies, but Stark didn't usually prioritize her safety over someone else's . Yeah, he kept her safe. But he didn't put people at risk for her. Hell, he hadn't even wanted Pepper to visit when she'd been at the Archive. He saw James as an enemy he simply didn't have permission to kill, and his concern for Hal was entirely genuine. His fear of her, how the Soldier might transform her with increased exposure, was also very real.

Hal wanted to throw something. Or fall asleep against the window. Or just cuddle a cup of tea. Drinking it would be a bonus. But she couldn't. Not with Clint sitting at her elbow, looking for reasons to declare her unfit for duty (doubtless at Romanoff's "suggestion"), and certainly not with James lurking somewhere in the back, making an endless list of her weaknesses.

How was she going to live with this man? The mission would probably take weeks, if not months, and Hal could barely stand five minutes in his presence without squirming. Everything between them itched, laced with unspoken truths. The most uncomfortable poison.

No, no. She could do it. But she might need a straightjacket at the end of it all.

As they approached the mountains, the rain turned to snow, smothering the thunder and lightning under heavy white flakes. Grey peaks broke through the clouds and stabbed into heaven. Hal watched the scenery with grim determination as Clint began the descent. He guided the quinjet into a dip between peaks, and landed gently in a shallow drift.

"End of the line," he said.

With a nod, Hal climbed out of her chair and into the back, where James was already tugging on the thermal gear Stark had thoughtfully provided. Hal couldn't help noticing that the Soldier's gear was noticeably thinner than her own, which could have kept an arctic explorer toasty warm. Whether it was a slight to Bucky or a boon to her, she didn't honestly care. He'd survived colder, and although she enjoyed the cold, she'd need a damn thick coat to survive if Doom sent them back across the mountains. Would Clint be able to circle back if their path was blocked by Doombots, or would that risk an international incident?

She yanked her hood over her ears and stuffed her hands into the gloves. Instantly, the quinjet became unbearably warm. The ramp dropped, and Hal stared out at the snow, wishing she had a knife in her pocket. But they'd all agreed – no weapons. If they wanted Doom to let them into Latveria, they couldn't barrel in with guns drawn, even if they were only shooting at some wolves.

Did Latveria have wolves?

"Hal."

She looked back. Clint waited by the ramp controls, ready to leave.

"Yeah."

He sighed, like he was disappointed in himself. "Be careful."

Hal sensed Romanoff's command behind the order. Smiling, she shrugged. "No promises." And she stepped off the ramp.

She immediately realized the snow was much deeper than anticipated. It gulped her legs up to the knees, and her balance failed. As she wobbled, a strong grip caught her elbow and righted her. The moment her equilibrium was restored, she voiced her feelings.

"Shit."

Beside her, James snorted, and she glared at him in challenge.

"Seriously. This is the most inauspicious start to a mission I've ever heard of."

"Really?" He guided her away from the quinjet as the ramp retracted and the engines roared. "Steve's had some real graceful entrances."

Hal knew. She'd seen them in his head – the perfect tarnish to the polished image the public cherished of him. But not even the world's most famous super soldier and his fumbles could chase away the nagging sense of urgency that was killing her humor.

Blowing the snow into a tiny blizzard, the quinjet took off, and the mission began.

"Let's get moving," Hal said. "I'd really hate to see what this mountain is like in the dark."

James nodded, equally serious, and led the way down the mountainside. His bulk cleared the way – more or less – and Hal quietly, but guiltily, accepted his chivalry. Of course, he could just be acting practically. No way could she keep up if they walked side by side, and it was a waste of energy to use two ploughs when one would suffice. She would also tire faster. So their walking arrangement was a purely reasonable allocation of resources. Or so she told herself.

She tried not to pry in James' thoughts, but his satisfaction rolled off in waves. She wanted to kick him in the ass and send him sprawling. See how satisfied he was with his face in the snow.

As they walked, she watched the sky. She couldn't say why, but she felt something, far away, lost in the clouds – a vague tickle of alarm she could tie to no clear sentience. The mountainside had little life, especially so close to the summit, and Hal's mind strained to find a mind besides James' to distract her. The spec could be nothing. Or it could be Ultron. Possibly. It did seem awfully quiet, now that she thought about it.

She reached for the speck, groping into the void and leaving her body to follow the Winter Soldier on autopilot. She trusted him to keep her from falling off any cliffs. The spec burned, a fiery spark in the endless white. Not a full consciousness, but a fraction of divided attentions. Puzzled, she tried to get a better fix on it, going still as she devoted all her energies to examining the ghost of thought.

Something slammed into her, snapping Hal back to reality as she went airborne. Her shoulder twisted, taking her weight as a silver hand clapped around her upper arm. Looking up, expecting to find herself thanking the Soldier yet again, she realized the silver hand connected to a silver body.

A drone. It had the same spark as the thing in the sky, and she suddenly understood what she was sensing: Ultron divided, the trace of his possession in the drones' systems.

In half a second she was beyond James' reach. He made a grab for her, shouting, but three more drones converged to distract him. She couldn't scream as she flew, pulled over ice and snow in a wild race. The air was gone from her lungs. All she could do was cling to her own arm, painfully aware that her left was leaving its socket.

She could sense the drones, and her mind reached instinctively to each and every one, but she knew they were cannon fodder. Only Ultron mattered. She had to find him. Had to focus. But she had no fixed point to ground herself. Everything blurred. Blue sky, white snow, all reflected by itself and muddled in wind and speed and agony.

When the drone finally released her, her momentum carried her another ten feet, and she went careening to a stop on a field of packed snow. It felt more like ice. Each bounce took her breath away, so when she finally came to rest, all she could do was try to breathe.

Face in the snow, it took her a moment to realize a shadow stood over her. She looked up, and the devil smiled down. Just as she'd felt his energy in the house, the glow peeking through the chinks of his new metal body showed red.

"Hal." He was smiling. Confident. Like he was genuinely happy to see her. "How nice to see you again. But I have to say, your timing could be better."

 **A/N: We shall begin this note with my usual complaint - it's shorter than I intended. That said, thanks to the reviewers! You guys are terrific!**

 **November plans: I will be trying to write for the next month and half over the next three weeks, because I plan to take a break from the fic for NaNoWriMo. My muse has been preoccupied lately with life and job stuff, so pokes/prods/and general notes are greatly appreciated. On days off, a review can literally mean the difference between sleeping in and writing another thousand words or so. If I don't get the chapters done, we will all have to suffer a temporary hiatus. _Please support by leaving a donation in the little box at the bottom of the page. Thankies much - you rocketh my fuzzy socks(eth?)!_**

 **Replies to Anons:  
**

 **B: Thanks so much for the review! Well, Sam and Bucky may not be working with each other as much as expected... for a little while anyway. Was that a spoiler? I dunno. Maybe. I LOVE writing from his POV, so you will be seeing more of it throughout the fic. That I can safely promise. Thanks again, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter!**

 **Guest: Thank you very much for the review! Yeah, he needs a loving friend to lend him a crowbar so he can pry his head out of his rear. He is essentially objectifying Hal by trying to stuff her into a neat spot in his worldview, but people don't work like that. He still has a long way to go. And, yeah, she's not over THAT, either. Rhymes for dayyyss! Thanks again!**


	9. Machine-On-Machine

**Disclaimer: Forget Marvel. I have movie theater popcorn. Oh, gaaaahhhhhddd yeeesssss...**

 _ **Chapter 9: Machine-On-Machine**_

Hal spat out a mouthful of snow.

"Ultron."

"In the flesh."

He rolled his shoulders, glorying in his new body. It was no mere drone shell. Looking at the intricacies of his face and the hulking frame, Hal wondered how many other stockpiles and resources Stark would soon realize were missing. During the brief respite the Avengers had used to cobble together a plan, Ultron had been a busy boy.

She, on the other hand, could've felt better. Her left shoulder throbbed, and only one hand seemed at all keen to answer her commands. And that wasn't taking into consideration her bruised knees, the snow burn on her exposed face, or even the overwhelming sense that she was up shit creek without a paddle.

Climbing to her feet, Hal grabbed for data. Ultron's peripheral thoughts crackled like a poorly-tuned analogue television, and Hal could only glimpse flickers of content. But deeper, the blood red hate grew perfect bubbles of conscious thought. Hal danced along the interwoven thoughts, snatching as much as she could as quickly as possible. She bought a few precious seconds brushing herself off, playing into the little scene Ultron instigated. No time to examine her catch, though. The show must go on.

"You're taller than I expected," she said.

"And you are just as I remember."

He grabbed the front of her heavy jacket, hauling her up to eye level like a child examining a toy. Hal zeroed in on his eyes, studying on the intricacies of the tiny metal organs. The concrete details grounded her. It was the only way to keep calm, and she couldn't afford to panic. But her heart still fluttered anxiously in the privacy of her chest.

She gingerly brought her hands to the fist she dangled from and fought to reengage the conversation.

"Well," she said, only a little breathlessly, "you did have an advantage."

His laugh trembled through her bones.

"It looks like I still do."

A flash of silver shot past Hal's right ear, and she barely registered the red star before the Soldier's fist slammed into Ultron's face. She flinched away from the rounding clang, and Ultron took half a step back as the vibranium punch hit his most delicate sensors. But he recovered even faster than Hal did, and as she opened her eyes, Ultron stepped forward to deal the Soldier a backhanded slap. The Soldier went flying.

"You brought a friend!" Ultron exclaimed. "How rude of me." He signaled minions Hal could barely sense, and five drones dropped out of the sky. Ultron waved them toward the Soldier, who groggily stumbled to his feet. "Keep our guest entertained, would you?"

"Watch out!" Hal shouted, twisting in Ultron's grasp to see the drones converging on the unarmed Soldier.

Her warning was unnecessary. James caught the first drone to approach by the neck, and before its brethren could reach it, he'd ripped out the core processor. As oil and other robo-guts dripped from his metal hand, he launched the broken shell at two of its compatriots.

Ultron shifted his grip, and suddenly she had more immediate concerns. He was watching James over her shoulder, calculating, and Hal knew she wouldn't like the sum of his conclusions.

"He's a brawler, your friend. Lots of muscle." Ultron turned, strolling farther away from the battle. Occupied as she knew him to be, Hal still felt her unease mount with every step Ultron added between her and her bodyguard. Far from oblivious of Hal's growing fear, Ultron continued. "I question your taste. But that reminds me – what are you, of all people, doing here?"

He hefted her over his head, and Hal yelped, kicking reflexively at a target she was much too short to reach.

He watched her carefully, suspicion growing. "What a _re_ you? Why _you_? Why _here_? How did you figure out where I was going next?"

Very aware of the distance between her feet and the ground, Hal scrambled for a better grip on Ultron's forearm and jerked vainly in search of a foothold. "A little birdy told me."

"Oh, I don't think so. It's something about _you_ , Hal. Something I've missed. Why is Stark so afraid of you? Why put you so far away from anything important? And putting you back in action now, well, I'm flattered, but I can't help feeling I've missed something." He brought her close to his face again, and Hal's knee banged against his metal chest. As she hissed, he frowned. "What have I missed? Tell me, Hal, what makes you so special?"

He asked like she might actually tell him.

"Tell me." He shook her, not as hard as he could have, and watched like her secrets would fall out of her pockets like spare change.

It felt familiar, the memory of a story. Tinted by someone else's eyes. This was how she'd met the Soldier, or how he'd met her. A warehouse and a knife. She'd found the recollection in his mind during the long quiet nights in the snow. Now they found themselves in the snow once again. Strange how the pattern repeated.

Ultron muttered to himself. "I never said. I've kept the data. Not even the drones…" He squinted, pulling Hal even closer as he tried to riddle out her purpose by the cold sweat pasting hair to her skin.

And then the world – or at least that corner of it – exploded.

Snow erupted in flashes of green, shrapnel glittered in the air, and a drone fell from the sky an arm's length from Hal. She turned away from the blast of heat and marveled at the small army that had appeared. Doombots swarmed the scene, climbing from booby traps under the snow and soaring in from the heart of Doom's little kingdom. As Ultron's drones winked out of existence, Hal reached out to find the Winter Soldier.

"We were _having_ a _conversation_!" Ultron roared, gesturing wildly as he spoke. Hal clung on for dear life.

James was consumed by his mission, his thoughts pulsing with determination, and Hal was ready when his hand suddenly appeared out of the growing fog of snow to seize Ultron's arm. He squeezed, and Ultron dropped Hal with a garbled curse. Rolling away, Hal groped again at Ultron's mind, hoping to steal a final clue to his grander schemes in the heat of battle. Ultron, however, was too frustrated and pained by the Doombots and the Soldier to do more than berate the substandard materials of his new body.

 _Vibranium_. It was the second time Hal caught him thinking about the rare metal. Apparently, Ultron hadn't gotten his hands on any yet. Good news. Hopefully it would serve as a good distraction as Hal set herself up in Latveria – and with luck, the Avengers would take him out before he could make a second attempt on Doom's nukes.

A pair of metal shins brought an abrupt end to Hal's escape, but when she looked up, she found a Doombot, not Ultron, standing over her. It regarded her with the dead expression of a machine, and Hal could find no trace of sentience –original or borrowed – creeping through its circuitry. Red illuminated a patch of the snowy fog ahead of them, and Ultron blasted away, trailing Doombots until he'd disappeared from sight.

Running footsteps alerted Hal to James' approach moments before he appeared. He froze the moment he caught sight of her, eyes flickering uncertainly to the Doombot.

In the fight with Ultron, Hal had become somewhat distracted from the concerns pertaining to their mission. They might have just fallen from the frying pan and into the fire. The Winter Soldier, apparently, had not forgotten. He took a count of immediate threats, and with every new Doombot he spotted, he grew just a little more tense. Soon, he was all but vibrating with restrained aggression.

Hal groaned as she climbed to her feet, babying her left arm. All she wanted was a cup of tea and a fluffy blanket. She didn't even need a roof. She'd happily sit in the snow. But first, she needed to know if the Doombots were a welcome wagon or a repelling force.

Lifting her hands in the universal sign of surrender, she addressed the Doombot she'd crashed into.

"Are you here to protect the assets from Ultron or kick all the bickering foreigners out of your backyard?"

The Doombot paused for a moment, activating programming, receiving orders, or simply switching out of hostile-mode, Hal had no idea. After a moment of ominous silence, the Doombot crackled back to life.

" _Doom will tolerate the presence of the Avenger's minions until a better solution is found. He will speak with you."_ Again, it paused. _"Follow."_ It spun on its heel and began marching downhill, but Hal trotted ahead of it, scampering sideways to speak as she moved.

"Brace yourself for a stupid question: can you transmit a message to Doom, or just receive orders?"

" _Doom sees all, hears all, knows all."_

"I will take that as a yes." Her useless arm banged against her side, and she winced, clutching it.

The Doombot continued in its staticy monotone. _"You are injured. Medical services will be provided upon arrival."_

"That's great, thanks, but that's not what I needed to say."

James hovered behind her, and Hal knew he couldn't decide whether he should put himself between her and the nearest Doombot, or if he should get ready to catch when she inevitably fell over. His faith in her grace was astonishing. She batted away his thoughts, mimicking the gesture physically as she struggled to focus.

"I'm not sure what was or was not relayed, but meeting with Doom is a bad idea. Trust me. I'm a telepath. And it's not something I can turn off. If we're in the same room, I'm bound to pick up on something he would probably prefer to keep to himself. Not to be rude, but like I said – bad idea."

The Doombot stopped in its tracks the instant she said "telepath" and only began to move again once the silence had grown awkward.

" _Message received and understood. You will not meet with Doom. Concessions will be made."_

Hal puffed out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Good. That's good. One international incident avoided. Excellent."

She wobbled, and James' arm came around under her shoulders. As she squawked, a second arm swept under her legs, lifting her off her feet. Suddenly she was snuggled against James' chest, staring up into his determinedly _not_ self-satisfied expression. On the surface, he was all battle-hard bad ass. But Hall could feel the tickle of warmer, more fondly amused emotions deep behind the mask.

"Put me down."

James continued along after the Doombot, like nothing had happened. He acted like she weighed next to nothing, and try as she may, she couldn't find any sensation of great exertion in his head. Damn super soldier and his damn muscles.

"No."

"My shoulder's hurt. My legs are fine. I'm not an acrobat. I walk with my legs."

"And I'm not giving you a chance to hurt those, too."

"Patronizing asshole."

"Stubborn."

"No idea where I got that from."

Their clipped bickering continued on and off until they came to a road, where the Doombot stopped, presumably waiting for a transport. Although the trip was warmer than it would've been otherwise, Hal didn't just protest the lift out of concern for her dignity. The arm wrapped around her shoulders added an uncomfortable pressure to her injury, and it _ached_. On the whole, she'd rather risk falling on her face than dealing with the exacerbated pain, but James offered her no choice.

To his credit, James didn't respond to half of the abuse she dished out.

And the Doombot didn't comment at all.

 **A/N: It's short and I'm not sorry because I got to see _Crimson Peak_ with my scaredy-cat friends and it was fantastic. Now, pardon. I have leftover popcorn with M &Ms. **

**Thank you for the reviews/favs/alerts!**

 **Replies to Anons:**

 **Inkwriter: INKY! Hi! Thank you for the review - I've missed you! I considered adding Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver, but there are so many things happening in the story (and more to develop) that the plot just refused to handle them. I could've dropped them in for the sake of scenery, but I hate doing that to characters. It's so unfair. There isn't much on FFN with Doom, especially the comics/animated versions, which is sad, because I always thought he was one of the most interesting villains in the Marvel universe. Ultron is a crazy. Son. Of. An. Ass (named Tony). Hal and Bucky have too much history to ignore, and too much history to sit easy until they build some new memories. Thanks for the luck and the review!**

 **B: Why, thank you! Hal remembers unconnected chunks that often appear in her mind as heavily redacted files. There will be some ties to her history, but that's all I'll say for now because winkywinkspoilers.**


	10. Eyes

**Disclaimer: I have incense. It is lovely. It is not as lovely, however, as Tony Stark, whom I do not have, because he is part of the Marvel properties... which I also do not own.**

 **Chapter 10: Eyes**

Bucky watched the pristine landscape of Latveria roll past the windows. He observed it all through a cloudy scrim of memories. His eyes registered daylight, but it was night in his mind. In the Latveria of memory, the quaint Tudor-style village was less pristine, the people gaunter, sicker, wasting away under the former ruler and his quiet devastation.

But unlike the fallen monarch of old, everyone knew Doom. Even the mighty Avengers worried about him. And they were right to. But Bucky knew what Latveria had been before, and as absolute a dictatorship as Doom held, at least the people under his thumb looked like they might enjoy some sort of life in his shadow.

It had not always been so.

He kept still, attention carefully divided between their surroundings and Hal. Together again – never the same. She sat so near to him. If he spread his hand, their fingers would brush. But the meager stretch of leather between them might as well be an abyss. She had not forgiven him, although she'd vouched for him to the others. Although she'd accepted him as a partner. A bodyguard.

Even her mind kept him at a distance. He knew that buzz at the edge of his thoughts, and if he tried hard enough, he imagined he could sense, ever so slightly what she was feeling. It could have been wishing. He'd never know. She would never tell him. Not now.

She'd jumped into enemy territory, essentially alone, because the two of them were worse than strangers.

God. She was so much like Steve. Little Steve, the shrimp who picked on bullies twice his size because it was _right_ even if it wasn't smart. Steve always had that drive, that sense of purpose. Hal… Once upon a time, maybe, she'd been a civilian, but she'd served a greater good long before she met him. Fury saw to that. When Bucky met Hal, he met the Compendium.

And now all that was gone. Or at least, the Compendium was gone. Bucky refused to believe that Hal, the real Hal, had died screaming in that damned chair. But the Compendium's mission was over. What remained was fragmented, outdated, and essentially useless. So Hal had found a new mission. She needed one. Bucky wouldn't lie to himself. She chose her path. She fought for it. Literally. He tried to imagine what Steve might have become without purpose, without the life-changing super soldier serum. Would he have been happy? Would he have found a new and better life? A normal one?

Steve saw something in Hal, especially _this_ Hal. As she was. If Steve was anything, it was polite, but Bucky knew him well enough to know that bringing someone into his home – for whatever reason – was a big move. It meant he trusted her, liked her. It meant he understood her. In many ways, that scared Bucky. He'd seen the kinds of trouble Steve found when he was on a mission. Accident-prone Hal seemed destined to surpass his penchant for mishaps.

Steve's greatest mission began with a machine and the equivalent of a magic potion. Hal's began in the ashes of her desecrated mind.

More picturesque buildings cropped up beside the road, drawing the car deeper into the heart of Doomstadt. Soon, the Tudor edifies blocked all but the highest mountain peaks from view, and the car slowed as the pedestrian traffic thickened. As they neared the town square, the streets turned to cobblestone, and the bouncing wheels sent Hal rocking into Bucky's shoulder. She hissed and pulled her elbow flush against her side. Bucky noted her cringing posture. As he'd feared – her left shoulder was dislocated. It could be worse. Much worse. She could easily have died in Ultron's grip if the AI had so desired, and Bucky would've been powerless to stop him. Under Ultron's sway, even the most basic drones became a problem. Bucky could handle them, but he couldn't protect Hal at the same time. Not by himself.

The car came to a stop in front of an old manor house a block or so from the public square, and as Bucky slid out of the car, he took in the scene. All he saw were threats. Cameras winked from discrete enclosures under eaves and sign posts. Doombots stood ready in specially designed alcoves in case of emergency. Even the civilians, quiet as they were, seemed _too_ quiet. Bucky knew it was all Doom's façade of perfection, but it was painted thick, and Bucky couldn't see past it, even if he could sense the ever present threat of eyes on the back of his head, and it put him on edge. Hal slid out behind him, wriggling free of the vehicle with considerably less grace as she protected her injured arm, and Bucky looked again at the cameras covering the street.

The house was undoubtedly bugged. He would have to warn Hal without being too obvious. So much surveillance, of course, would make that difficult. Although he'd trained Hal to fight, he hadn't taught her how to be a spy, and any discrete signals he might have passed to a Red Room associate, a Hydra operative – or even Steve – would tell Hal nothing. But even as the thought crossed his mind, her eyes crept over his face. She frowned. Followed his glance. She didn't say anything, but she knew. Her shifting posture confirmed it as she squared her shoulders under the remote scrutiny, fighting to suppress her obvious pain. It wasn't a spy's reaction, and Bucky knew Doom would be watching. What would he think of this apparently inexperienced telepath and her introduction to his country? Would he assume she was too delicate? Would he ignore her in favor of the historied assassin standing in her shadow?

Bucky hoped to hell Doom would underestimate her.

Lips pressed in a thin line, Hal followed the driver as he waved them into the house. Bucky came a step behind, ready to face whatever challenges Doom might invent.

 **A/N: It is short. And I am taking my NaNoWriMo break a week early. The good news is that this should mean longer chapters in the long run, because I'm using at least part of this time to write ahead/build out the plot.**

 **Wish me luck, and thanks for the support!**

 **Replies to Anons:**

 **Guest: Thanks for the review! Oh, I would pay to see it, too. Hope you enjoyed the latest chapter!**

 **Guest: Thank you very much! Sorry to leave you dangling, but I hope you enjoy this little taste. Hope to see you at the end of November!**


	11. Thin Ice

**Disclaimer: I don't always write short chapters, but when I do it's inevitably for an awesome series I have no rights to that I abandoned for a solid month. Cheers.**

 **Chapter 11: Thin Ice**

The bunker could hold worlds. Every fact and impression of Hal's reality. Every dream. Every hope. Every truth she wasn't ready to face. The bunker grew when she wasn't looking, stretching cramped hallways to accommodate empty rooms with invisible furnishings. Palaces and mountains climbed up to artificial grey skies as she recreated fictions picked out of books and movies. Sometimes Hal thought the bunker acted of its own accord.

Like when it began building halfway homes for the dreams Hal walked with the Soldier.

After New York, Hal came to the dispassionate conclusion that she and James once more shared each other's sleeping realms. Maybe it was the physical proximity – they hadn't shared a roof since he abandoned her, after all. From a distance, they could shut each other out, but with his waking thoughts pressing so close, there was no room to dream. At least not alone.

So Hal stood in a snowy field, hands in her pockets, wondering what part of this vision came from her, and what part came from the Soldier. Their mutual association with the cold made it hard to tell. A glow hung in the air, like a sunless December day.

She dropped back, spread-eagle, and swung her arms and feet to make an angel. Above her, flurries swirled down from a cement ceiling, floating between the empty branches of skeletal trees. Sticking out her tongue, she caught a flake on her tongue. It tasted like iron and ashes.

Once she had finished her angel, she climbed slowly to her feet without disturbing the pattern. Admiring her work, she folded her arms and took a step back. It felt like memory. A redacted file she could only recognize by the contents' absence. Had she done this before? Often? Was it a pastime from her childhood, or had she played like this as a lover, holding out her hand for a boyfriend to help her up? Whenever she last flew in the snow, it left her feeling warm, and a pleasant bitterness like dark chocolate haunted her tongue.

But as she watched, a red stain crept through the snow, spreading from the angel's invisible heart, until the hot blood bubbled up through the snow, steaming in the chilly air.

She puffed a sigh and moved on.

Violence. Hurt. The dream's reaction could've been the Soldier's memory or the bunker's translation of earlier, darker times in her own past. It didn't really matter. It was just a dream. And yet it bothered her that she couldn't tell her dreams apart from his. All this time, all this distance, and they just slipped back together like gun and a magazine. Had anything really changed between them? James had meant to steer her down a different path, change her course forever, and yet there they were, sharing the same house, the same dreams, just like the good old days. They only carried a few more scars now, most of them gifted by the other.

Hal could see the Soldier off to her left, standing between the silvery trees, his back to her. His black uniform made a perfect contrast to the snow, and the red star on his shoulder matched the blood still steaming in the snow angel. She turned away, less interested in the man and more interested in the vast frozen lake to her right. Whenever she woke up, she'd still have the Soldier to deal with. But it had been ages since she'd been outside.

Gradually, testing each step, she crept out across the lake. She could hear the wind, and the ceiling felt higher, even if it didn't look any farther away. The source-less light filled the scene, glowing warming, and the ice twinkled in microscopic prisms.

She studied her reflection, pirouetting on the ice with a laugh as the rubber soles of her shoes squeaked against the glassy surface. She spread her arms, flying again without leaving the ground. She felt childish. But that was only natural for a woman with little over a year's worth of memories intact. After attempting to masquerade as a normal adult in Tony Stark's tower or toddlers, she needed the break from maturity.

She stopped and peered over her shoulder, suddenly paranoid she'd find James standing there watching her. He'd never stopped seeing her as a child. The worst part was that he was right in all the wrong ways. He cleared the way for her in the snow. He carried her down the mountainside. But his worries constantly gnawed at the edge of Hal's consciousness. He didn't think she was ready. He didn't think she was prepared. And he was probably right. But he forgot that so long as someone in the general vicinity knew what they were doing – so would she.

Her eyes wandered back to her reflection, and she examined her face. Not much had changed. Once upon a time in a different winter she'd met her reflection in a cracked mirror. Now every bump and fissure in the ice distorted her features, and Hal found warped reflections more comforting than the perfect image she met in bathroom mirrors. She saw herself through every mind she'd ever entered, experienced the thoughts that defined her peers' impressions of her. The distortions made her comfortable.

Something in the ice shifted. Maybe a fish? The bunker rarely made shadows of living things, but the Soldier's dreams were full of distant faces and milling crowds. But they'd never dreamed a fish, at least as far as she could remember. Frowning, she leaned closer. Her reflection did not reciprocate. Hal drew a short breath, and the reflection's arms sprang forward – out of the ice – to grab her by the hair. Hal's scream died half way through, choked with frigid water as she dragged herself under.

.O.O.O.

She woke with a start, blinking in darkness. Disoriented, she reached out, grabbing at the nearest minds as she tried to place herself. There were strangers, not as many as New York, but far more than her home upstate. Her home… wasn't hers anymore. The nearest mind felt so close and familiar, she almost didn't notice it. When she did, understanding broke through her sleepy haze. Cool and quiet, James' sleeping mind hummed with controlled energy. It used to comfort her when she'd wake up in the cabin. Now it only made her distinctly uncomfortable.

Groaning, she rolled out of bed and dropped her head into her hands.

Two days since she'd crossed the border with James. Two days of waiting in the strange house in a strange country waiting for a particularly strange villain to swoop down and make his move.

It didn't ease her mind to know that monsters watched her while she slept. A thousand eyes peered through the house, built into the walls, the appliances, everything. The Soldier had made a point of walking through the house and staring directly into every camera he could find, and Hal was more than a little suspicious he hadn't found them all.

The house was clean, furnished, and ready for visitors. Hal couldn't help wondering why Doom would keep lodgings ready for out of towners, but even Doom must have connections from beyond his tiny country. Smugglers, spies – the usual company of a despotic overlord. Of course, that was all conjecture. It wasn't like Hal could see into Doom's head.

He kept well away, and Hal questioned her decision to warn him about the nature of her talents. But every time she wondered, she followed the same course of logic that had led to the decision in the first place. She wasn't there for Doom. Someday she might have to deal with him, but Ultron was the immediate threat. Better to secure Doom's trust while she needed it. Everything else could wait.

The sudden change of plans hadn't deterred Doom in the slightest. Doom was clever, and it was easy enough for him to arrange for a secondary monitoring station to be built in Hal's remote living arrangements. Within an hour or their arrival, technicians descended en mass and transformed a small office on the ground floor of the small mansion into a cyberpunk's dreamland. Every shred of data entering the country from the world outside went through the station. If Ultron tried to sneak his cyber self into Latveria, he'd have to do it under Hal's nose.

Doom, of course, did not give the station actual computer monitors or accessible ports, and although all the information of Latveria's state, military, and possibly arcane activities passed through the warren of towers and cables in the home's office, Hal couldn't reach them. Neither could James. Even if they tried to sneak in their own tech to read the data, the house in general and the office specifically had very serious security. Video monitoring seemed to be Doom's favorite means of control.

Hal told herself it didn't matter. So long as they kept Ultron out of Latveria, they had won. Still, it had been a very long time since anyone knew so much about her while she knew so little about them.

Her room shared a wall with the monitoring station, and if the dream had allowed her, she might have slept in. But she had no desire to slip back into that particular dream world. Besides, maybe she could get the coffee made before James woke up. He always woke before she did, and while he was far from a shining example of domestication, he really liked coffee. And he had manners. So Hal always woke to find enough left in the pot for her own morning cup. Beating him, even once, would make a bleak and boring day a little happier.

Spurred by her new determination, she grabbed a dress at random from the closet. For all his advanced technology, Doom must be a traditionalist at heart. Since neither James nor Hal brought much of anything to augment their wardrobe during their mountain hike, the dictator saw fit to graciously provide them with closets and dressers full of "appropriate" duds. And Hal got dresses. Lots of dress. She liked dresses, but for days on lounging on the couch and staring blankly at the wires running through the monitoring station, Doom could've provided more practical attire. Like sweatpants. Or even jeans. In truth, the biggest problem was James. He never said anything, but the dresses always reminded him of times when essentially all women wore dresses. It made him just a little more protective, and he was already suffocating her.

For instance, rather than taking the upstairs room prepared for him, he chose to sleep on the couch in the living space that connected Hal's room with the front door and the monitoring station. Hal really wondered what he thought he could do if Doom changed his mind. The house would probably just implode. No mess. No fuss. And Ultron liked to make an entrance, but he was more of a backdoor kind of villain.

Hal couldn't prove her readiness, but at least she could prove her skills with the damn coffee machine. So what if she never drank what he left? It didn't matter that she always thanked him and pretended her black tea was coffee.

Still wrestling her hair into a braid, Hal stomped through the living room. Her mind had gone ahead to sort through her astonishingly uninspired plans for the day, and she didn't notice Barnes rising from the couch until he grew like a shadow in the corner of her eye. She hopped sideways, hands still at work on her hair, making for an undignified retreat. The smell of fresh coffee hit her as she heard the machine give its final rattling gasp. Annoyed at her hair, her life, and the man beside her, she glared.

"What?"

His eyes did not rest on her face but wandered over the back of her head. A gentle tug at the bottom of her scalp alerted her to the hand running down her plait.

He murmured so softly Hal doubted even Doom's bugs could hear him.

"You remembered."

 **A/N: So... Hi. I would like to congratulate the surviving followers and welcome the newcomers to our snark party of angst! As usual: apologies for the delay. I had a bad relapse while I was away, which led to publicly "coming out" with my mental illness (to people who know me outside the anonymity of ffn), and I was NOT expecting the response I got. I've spent hours just answering all the old friends, professors, etc. who've reached out. It's really moving. I cried. A lot. And I have to say: if you have a mental illness, let people know. Fight the stigma. There are a lot of diamonds hiding among even the most distant FB friends, and they'll fight for you.**

 **On with the story!**

 **I aim to update Saturday, but that depends on a few factors beyond my control. But know that I will update again. Soon. With a longer chapter that continues the scene I ended with.**

 **Replies to Anons:**

 **Ravena16: Thank you so much for both reviews! I enjoyed writing those a LOT, and I'm thrilled you got such a kick out of them! Thank again!**

 **B: Thanks for the review! The break is broken! Fic is served! Come 'n get it!**


	12. Remember to Forget

**Disclaimer: I have some lovely tea. But I do not have a cup of Marvel. Too bad. I'm sure it would be delicious.**

 ** _Chapter 12: Remember to Forget_**

" _You remembered."_

A memory of a dream, of his laughing eyes and her bumbling attempts at communication sent a warm thrill down her spine. It came from their days in the cabin, when he spent his nights in her dreams, watching her categorize the rubble. She always knew herself in dreams, and so, apparently, did he. They'd shared a lot of unspoken commiseration.

That _closeness_. She missed it so desperately. No one else shared her dreams. No one else even had the opportunity to understand her. Not the way he had.

Hal stepped away, intensely conscious of James' proximity. The ghost of his touch left her scalp warm, and she shook her head to send the tail of her braid over her shoulder. Without looking at James, she tied it off.

"I remember a lot of things now. Pepper helped with things like – this."

James smiled, and his thoughts brightened with a little ray of pleasure. _He'd been right_.

Grinding her teeth, she turned away. No. He'd been wrong. He should never have left her alone in that motel. He should have stayed, or at least given her a warning. Explained. She wanted to scream it in his face. Tell him about the nightmares. The empty dreams where she woke up crying to a stranger's comfort. Finding her feet alone because – helpful as some people could be – James had already taught her the most important lesson in life: people left. Usually with good reason.

But her rage turned her mute, and she stalked toward the kitchen in silence. Only when she stood in the doorway, out of earshot for any normal person, she found herself muttering, "No thanks to you."

The bolt hit its mark. She felt his flash of pain before he shut it down. Turned it off. Killed all feeling. He'd always been good at that. Hal used to envy his skill. Still did. But now she pitied him. And she pitied herself. And it was all so tremendously pointless.

Doubly furious, she passed through to the kitchen.

Sure enough, the coffee was ready. It sat there steaming, proud of itself with its little lights and switches and bitter brew. Hal wrestled with the urge to dump it all down the drain. But that wouldn't achieve anything. It wouldn't hurt him. It wouldn't hurt her. Just an empty waste. So she ignored it instead and went straight for the tea.

When she passed back through the living area, she made a great show of bobbing her teabag in the cup, taking little sniffs of the fresh drink and murmuring happily to herself. In truth, she hadn't moved on from their encounter, or her reactions. It all left her puzzled in the sick way stepping off a rollercoaster might leave a child. But she really was a good liar. And tea could never be a bad thing.

The cables and terminals of the observation room sat waiting for her, and she looked at them blankly as her mood sank even further. This was her job now. Staring at wires.

Waiting for Ultron was boring. It was the worst sort of waiting, the uninformed, purposeless sort of hiatus from life Hal had always loathed. As her full time occupation, it only gave her time to chew over thoughts better left alone.

She didn't know how much longer she could stand it. When she suggested the mission, she'd expected the danger, the constant threat of Doom's whims on top of Ultron's determination to enter Latveria. She hadn't expected James. She hadn't realized how close they would really be, how much it would hurt to be that close again. It was a distraction – no, it was something worse. Something she couldn't put a name to.

With a sigh, she set her tea on an end table she'd dragged into the room their first day and made herself comfortable on the long loveseat shoved against the only wall not sprouting cables. Lights flickered and blinked. Time oozed through the cracks of reality, and Hal let her mind slip beyond her body.

Exploring Latveria wasn't an option physically. Doombots stood guard at the door. Cameras watched from every shadowy corner. Doom was very careful with his masks, and Hal could sense that he'd warned people away from his guesthouse so long as the telepath was in residence. He hadn't set the perimeter far enough, however. He'd underestimated Hal. Considerably. Although Hal worked best with subjects in the immediate vicinity, or at least in the same building, she could follow targets from a distance measured in city blocks, not yards. The denser the crowd, the more difficult to focus, but Latveria wasn't a densely populated country.

Hal tried not to focus on any specific minds. But she left the mix of thoughts, emotions, and daily sights and sounds filter in as a shared experience. Life in Doomstadt – Hal's own personal Travel Channel. Without leaving the house, she could tell which shop had the best pastries, which streets pedestrians found safest, what the children thought when they looked at the Doombots in their public alcoves.

The human experience, Hal mused, was very strange. Everything could be different, and yet all the important things were the same. Family. Security. Work. Fear. In New York, people worried about muggers and terrorists. In Doomstadt, they worried about Doom – or his enemies. Most seemed content, if never fully satisfied. They looked at the mountains and wondered. They looked at their children and smiled. Older residents always made comparisons. They looked at children playing tag and thought, _That would never have happened before._ Or they looked at the setting sun and smiled when they remembered their children would be back from work – safe in their own homes – no more barracks. Then they would remember that curfews were still a thing and hurry home.

Hal lingered over the elders' thoughts and wondered what Latveria was like before Doom. Bucky had mentioned it. He'd mentioned killing someone.

The air crackled, and Hal jumped off her seat as a voice like an old-time radio announcer boomed through the house.

" _Doom bids you welcome to Latveria."_

"Shit," Hal muttered, rubbing her shoulder. It still ached, especially when it suddenly had to take her full weight as she tumbled to the floor.

As she sat up, the door exploded in, and the Winter Soldier stood in the empty frame, grim and armed with a kitchen knife. Hal wondered if he'd been sleeping with the thing under his pillow. A brush against his thoughts confirmed it.

"Calm down," Hal hissed.

He gave her a flat look and Hal turned attention back to the voice.

"Thank you for the rescue and the accommodations!" she shouted at the ceiling.

" _I will speak with you face to face. Or as near an approximation as your abilities will allow."_

"Of course." Hal reached for the jacket she'd left on the back of the loveseat the night before, expecting to go for a walk. Would they be shouting across a field with megaphones or something?

" _Your coat will not be necessary."_

Hal tensed, feeling invisible eyes creeping over her skin. Beside her, the Winter Soldier had gone still as a stone.

" _There is a second office on the upper floor. I will speak with you there."_

Shrugging, she elbowed past the Soldier and headed for the stairs. She was halfway up the first flight when the voice interrupted.

" _I need only speak with Stark's telepath. Her shadow may remain below."_

She looked over her shoulder to see James frozen with his flesh hand on the banister and his foot on the lowest step. He glared at the nearest camera rebelliously. If he wouldn't even let sleep on a different floor, he would hardly let her converse with a despotic overlord on her own.

"Easy there, tiger," Hal murmured.

Her word drew the Soldier's attention back to her face, and she felt the barrage of thoughts he was trying to convey through the querulous slant of his mouth. He was ready for a fight. With Doom. With her. It wasn't important. The only thing that mattered was the mission. And she was that mission.

It wasn't the first time he'd thought of her in those terms. It sent a spike of ice into Hal's gut, but she kept her face neutral. She'd seen his memories. She understood what it meant to be the Winter Soldier's mission. But she also knew he wouldn't hurt her.

He was only frustrated. They both knew it, even if only one of them was adult enough to acknowledge it.

"I'm just going upstairs," she said.

"Not alone."

"Of course not. I don't plan on having a conversation with my reflection."

He didn't appreciate the joke.

"Hal."

Mirroring his glower and posture, she echoed, "James." With a snort, she recommenced her ascent. "See, I can do that, too."

"I'm supposed to stay with you."

Hal closed her eyes and prayed Doom didn't have a good camera angle. Damn. It really was too late for him to be spouting that shit. He really should've come to that conclusion a year or so back. The hurt urged her to make his statement personal, but that wasn't important at the moment. She could always hit back later.

The mission really was more important.

So she said something to make him back off.

"He's been watching us this whole time – how bad do you think I can fuck this up?"

After their earlier conversation and the mounting stress over the torn but not-entirely-severed dream connection, he had enough insight to her thought process to read between the lines. If he followed her upstairs, it would be a personal slight. It would also undermine his promise to support her.

He hesitated.

Hal pressed her advantage and hurried up the last few steps. The study door loomed open to her left. Sweeping inside, she pulled it shut, leaning her weight against the hardwood once the latch clicked home. It was a paltry division, but even the slightest barrier eased Hal's mounting anxiety that James would do something stupid. Out of sight. Out of mind.

Well. Nearly.

Once her eyes adjusted to the comparative darkness of the windowless study, she found herself staring at a screen full of James, or – more accurately – the Winter Soldier. The footage was old. Black and white grains moving in the vague shapes of people. But Hal recognized the red star outlined on the assailant's left arm, and although his face was hidden by a mask, she could never mistake the lithe assassin's moves. Confidence. Strength. Grace.

The screen showed five seconds of looped footage: a man in a fantastically ostentatious bathrobe sitting in an equally flamboyant armchair. A newspaper occupied his hands, but Hal could not make out the date – the film quality was far too low. As the man read, the shape of a second man emerged from the solid darkness behind the armchair. A gleaming metal hand swooped around to grab the man's neck – displaying the tell-tale star to advantage – and then a hand of flesh carried a knife into the man's belly. One. Two. Three times. Gurgling silently, the reader slumped in his chair. The assassin retreated. The video stuttered and began again. And again. On the fifth loop, Doom's radio-like voice broke the silence.

" _One of Hydra's messier assassinations._ " A second screen warmed to life above the first, and Doom's silver mask appeared. Its formidable expression belied his conversational tone. Doom did not have conversations with lesser mortals. Doom only staged theatrical introductions to demonstrate his tremendous superiority and control. It didn't take a telepath to understand that.

On the lower screen, the Winter Soldier continued to eviscerate his target. " _I've always wondered what Gregorich Fortunav did to earn such a … personal touch."_

Hal dove into her library, summoning the scraps she'd gathered during the precious few hours between the inception and initiation of her plan. The Fortunav line ruled Latveria more than five hundred years. Then Doom happened. He executed the man on the throne, Vladimir Fortunav, and assumed control of the government, remaking every system and legislative body to suit his needs. The country went from a monarchial dictatorship supported by a downright antiquated noble class to a pure dictatorship. Neither system appealed to Hal, but she remembered what James said about his past trip to Latveria, the trip, she knew, she had the pleasure of watching now.

"Plenty of things, I'm sure," she said, hoping Doom wouldn't take the mild sarcasm as an impertinence. Conversations were so difficult like this. Without mental context. Without a facial expression. It really had been a long time since Hal conversed with a true stranger.

" _Your shadow topples empires. I do wonder what manner of woman could attach herself to such a creature."_

"Did you choose your shadow?"

" _I cast my own. Yours is borrowed."_

Really, if anyone was borrowed, it was definitely Hal – the telepath on loan for whoever passed Stark's screening. But Doom wouldn't care to hear that. She didn't need to read his mind to know he wouldn't like being contradicted.

Doom went on. _"And now you've brought this particular shadow back to Latveria. I trust you have him well in hand."_ Neither question nor statement, Doom's 'trust' hovered on the cusp of a threat.

"He's here to preserve a life," she said. "Not take one."

" _As are you, I believe."_

"I'm here to preserve quite a few. Most of the world, in fact." Was it arrogant to say that if it was true?

" _Those who image they are heroes always harbor such delusions."_

The looping assault onscreen froze. James' grainy expression froze in a blank façade of determination. Hal took a deep breath and forced herself to look at it carefully as Doom spoke.

" _Tomorrow night there is a production of_ Rigoletto _in the Public Theater. You and your shadow will be my guests. I will arrange for appropriate attire to be sent to the guest house."_

"Oh, um," Hal's brain stuttered. "Thank you. But are you sure that –"

" _I am not Stark, child. Doom always acts with certainty."_

The screens switched off, the lights rose, and Hal understood the conversation was over. Addressing the empty screens – and the bugs she knew filled the walls – she said, "See you later then, I guess." After a moment of hesitation, she turned her back to the room and stepped out the door. She pulled it closed behind her back and, the moment the latch clicked home, sagged against its support. Her hands wandered to her temples as her breathing hitched and steadied out again. Had she done well? Had she given something away something she hadn't even considered? How could she know? It wasn't like she could reach out and touch Doom's thoughts from across the city.

Shit. She needed so much more practice. When they returned to New York, she would make a point of making as many phone calls as possible. It was the only really effective way to learn.

A storm was brewing under her feet. She could feel James' simmering frustration from the floor below. It rose around her in toxic clouds of angst and anticipation. Hal had no desire to go down to meet the thundercloud, but she would have to eventually. She had many talents, but she couldn't wait out the Winter Soldier.

With a quick shake of her head to clear her thoughts of brooding and a quick breath, Hal went trotting down the steps, desperately hoping the wan smile she'd forced over her face wasn't too much to be believed. When her feet hit the first floor, she stopped, blinking.

The furniture had all been moved aside, leaving an empty ring at the center of the room. James stood there, feet apart, hands behind his back.

Hal took half a step forward, cocking her head. "James?"

"You can still sense _that_ from out here," he said, nodding toward the office. "You haven't trained since we arrived."

Hal stopped. Although she didn't dare retreat, she straightened as much as she could without falling back. "Neither have you."

"Not while you were awake."He offered a mirthless smile.

"So," Hal took a step to the side, and he countered. "You want to spar."

He didn't open his mouth, but his answer was obvious as he arched an eyebrow.

"I'm in a dress," Hal said.

"If you insist on wearing those things," James said, "you'd better be ready to fight in them."

And then he was on her.

He pulled his punches, but he didn't hold back any trick, attack, or dodge that would leave Hal reeling and frustrated. It wasn't so much a lesson as a punishment, a demonstration of his point: she needed his protection, and capable as she could be, they were still far from equals on the battlefield. She could do things he could not. He could do things she could not. He reminded her of that with every trip that sent her tumbling, and every blow he stopped within an inch of her face.

Hal's ire rose with every block he smashed through, every strike he batted aside. She did not want to fight. She was not ready for this. And she didn't want to climb inside his head, damn it. What he put off, what surface thoughts she inevitably skimmed over – they gave her a bitter taste of turmoil. This fight wasn't only for her benefit. He was proving the same points to himself. She was weak. She wasn't ready. She never would be. He'd been right to leave her.

Hal screamed in frustration as she lashed out at James' face. He caught her wrist. Stony eyes bored into hers. His metal hand drove into her solar plexus, and as Hal doubled over, his ankle hooked around hers. She fell flat on her back, but as she gaped breathless on the floor, he twisted her arm and flipped her onto her stomach. His knee sank into her back, and his arm curled around her throat. Hal wriggled and flailed as her breath came back, and between bouts of coughing, she screamed again.

"Stop it!" James tightened his hold around her neck, and her scream tapered into a wheeze. "Stay down." He sounded, for a moment, almost as winded as she was.

Hal went obediently limp, and he rewarded her by loosening the arm around her neck. As she sucked in coughing gusts of air, he panted into her ear.

"Stop trying to be me," he whispered.

"I never wanted to be you, you son of a bitch." Hal snapped her head back into his nose, and his surprise gave her just enough time to twist free.

" _You_ stop!" she shouted. Let Doom and the whole of Latveria listen in if they wanted to – James' idiocy would not go un-rebuked. Or unanswered. "We've been here before. Just like this. You with your muscles and your arm and your training. Me with a key to your brain and – apparently – a much more level head than you will ever have. We're both here for a reason. I get it already. You need me. I need you."

She realized what she'd said the instant it left her tongue. She hung suspended in the moment, horrified, as he received her words, and then reality crashed back into full speed. Fear curled black and tight like a garrote around her neck, and she turned her back on James before there was any danger of understanding in his eyes. She beat a hasty retreat to her little office, and she locked the door behind her.

As if that could keep him out if he decided to follow. She prayed he wouldn't. Everything inside felt tangled. The assassination recording. Doom. James' words, actions, and roiling emotions. So much his behind that ice he wore for battle. Rage. Fear. Regret – but not enough. Not for the right reasons.

Hal dropped to her couch and covered her face. The sound of Latveria's people clanged like a bell at the back of her mind, threatening a headache of epic proportions. And it still wasn't enough to drown out Barnes.

What Hal wouldn't give to be alone with her thoughts.

 **A/N: Shall we address the elephant in the room: "Where the HELL was Cuckoo?" In truth, I had a bit of a snap - but in a good way. I quit my job when I discovered that they had lied to my face, and am now a full time freelancer. I've already ghostwritten a YA novel, write for multiple blogs, and run an Etsy shop on the side. I am happy, but busy.**

 **You are all AMAZING. I couldn't believe I was still getting reviews after such an unforgivably long accidental hiatus. Seriously. I am in awe.**

 **My mom is going in for open heart surgery tomorrow, which means I may have more or less time for fanfic. It's a great distraction from stress, but once she is released I will be her primary caregiver.**

 **Thank you all for your tremendous support! You may have noticed the next chapter is the 13th. It will be a doozy.**

 **Replies to Anons:**

 **harper: YOU MADE A HASHTAG! I love it! Thank you so much for the review. It was wonderfully timed, actually, and helped me restart the process of ficage. Thanks again!**

 **Bree: Thank you so much! I'm thrilled that you're still rereading it! Hopefully you enjoy this chapter and those that follow.**


	13. Sting

**Disclaimer: I have sinuses from hell but no superheroes to cuddle. No Marvel. No Marvel for me.**

 **A/N: New cover art by the incredible 7marbles! Check out her Tumblr! She has several great pieces of art for _Sin Eater_ and _Martyr's Crown_. I would link, but we all know how FFN feels about sharing the linkage love. **

Chapter 13: Sting

No one, Hal decided, could say Doom had poor taste. Sadly, his good taste was a good bit of trouble to put on. A handful of hours before the opera was due to start, Hal found herself wrestling with a small army of tiny, cloth-covered buttons that ran down the entire back of her dress. Even worse, the beautiful, old fashioned design included a high collar – which had even more buttons. Twisting and wriggling did nothing to help. If she caught hold of a button, the adjoining loop inevitably moved out of reach. It seemed impossible to hold both button and loop at the same time. Once, she thought she had succeeded in getting one of the damn things into position. Then she realized she had matched the button to the wrong loop.

"You've gotta be kidding," she muttered.

"Problem?"

Hands twisted behind her back, Hal craned her neck to see James loitering in the doorway. Heaven knew how long he'd been watching her humiliation. He was already dressed and pressed and ready to go. A suit. He was wearing a suit. He looked good in a suit. Hal quickly looked away.

"No problem. Well. Not one big problem. Just lots of little ones. I can't seem to-"

James stepped up behind her and brushed away her fumbling hands.

"Let me."

Hal paused, but he already had the fabric in his hands. He didn't usually volunteer to get so close. It seemed a shame to chase him off. So she looked down and lifted her hair away from her neck.

He knew what he was doing. His calluses whispered over the delicate fabric as he pressed each button through the coordinating loop, and his slow, deep breaths raised the hairs on the back of Hal's neck as he focused on each tiny step in the task he'd claimed. When he came to the last button, his knuckle dragged over the sensitive skin just below her ear, and while his breathing didn't change, Hal couldn't pretend hers didn't catch. And he noticed.

Hoping, perhaps, for the same reaction, he brushed his thumb over the same spot. Hal closed her eyes and stopped breathing altogether. One hand still held up her hair, and James took the exposed skin as a demure invitation. Carefully, giving her time to pull away, he touched his lips to her pulse.

Maybe, once upon a time in a different brain with proper memories, Hal had enjoyed the attentions of a boyfriend. If she ever had, she could not remember. From what she'd gathered of her past life, romantic attachments seemed unlikely. She'd brushed across uncomfortable images and sensations in minds she'd touched on the street. When she passed lovers in a park, she could feel the ghost of their passion, and she had not escaped the secondhand impression of romping couples' arousal when she passed crowded apartment buildings in NYC. But they were nothing like this.

It was the difference between watching someone else take a drink of water and jumping into a lake herself.

She gasped as James nuzzled into her neck. His arm curled around her waist, and Hal took the chance to sink back against his chest. As he folded second arm around her, his thoughts enveloped her. Deep heat tempered with caution – she had become his all consuming focus. She reached out, hoping he could feel everything she tried to answer with: curiosity, pleasure, hope, and an answering heat that drove her to wonder how she had ever survived the cold.

Desperate to see his face, to reach him with her eyes, she turned in his arms –

And off the couch, falling straight out of the dream.

Hal landed with a muffled _ooof_ , and she froze in mortal terror, waiting to hear the Soldier rushing in to check on her. She could not face him as she was. Not after that dream.

Not after she told him she _needed him_.

With a slightly more audible groan, she buried her face in the carpet and prayed the Latverian earth would split and swallow her whole. She hadn't meant to say it. She hadn't even thought it. It just popped out. Why she still felt any desire to be in his life was beyond her. He betrayed her. He bullied her.

And saved her life. Taught her to fight. Walked through her dreams like her inner wasteland was perfectly normal. He was unlike anyone else she'd ever met, but the idiot just didn't seem to understand that, so she tried to blaze her own trail – until he decided she was doing it wrong and dropped back in her life. He had no idea how much it was hurting her. The asshole.

And now she was dreaming about him, dreams she prayed he hadn't seen. The man in her dreams wasn't like the man who sulked at the edge of their shared visions, though, so she suspected (hoped) he hadn't witnessed that particularly steamy bit of folly.

The worst part? Eventually she would have to leave the room and look at his stupid face after imagining what his lips felt like against her skin.

Groaning again, Hal pressed the wadded-up blanket over her head.

"Shit."

.O.O.O.

The bumps and bruises of the previous day's spar made their appearance before Hal left the room, and James left her alone after taking one long look at the blotchy purple ring around her throat. Hal was left to scavenge through the kitchen in peace, and she forced herself to eat before slinking back into her hidey-hole.

In another hour their clothes for the evening arrived. Hal opened her package with trepidation, fearing the sight of buttons and high collars. The dress inside had neither. It was a sleek white affair with generous pleats, something a starlet from the golden age of Hollywood might wear. A matching scarf was curled in the bottom of the box, draped over a pair of simple black pumps that matched the dress's piping.

Hal could only assume the techno-wizard dictator had been watching the footage from yesterday's brawl. Well. At least there were no buttons, even if the sheer sleeves promised to display more than a few of her bruises. Hal spent the next several hours turning herself into the kind of creature that might actually pull off such a pretentious gown. She layered enough make-up to hide her insecurities and curled her hair, but once she had the dress on, she had to reevaluate her style.

The back made up for its lack of buttons with a lack of fabric. It left three large diamonds exposed, revealing significantly more than it covered. It was meant to put her off balance, Hal knew, to make her worry more about her appearance than the inevitable games Doom was trying to play, but she wasn't willing to assume the role of wilting flower.

She fought her way out of a secret laboratory. She spent a winter training with the world's most feared assassin. She survived living in Avengers Tower without killing Tony Stark. Doom couldn't scare her with a dress. Decided, she carefully re-styled her hair, twisting it up in a braided coif. She didn't need to hide. So she wouldn't.

Her thoughts stayed with Doom and his intentions until her hand settled on the doorknob. Then she remembered the man outside. She remembered the dream. The house's climate control kicked in, and a warm breeze ghosted down her essentially naked back.

The dress presented a whole new set of problems.

But it was too late to chicken out now.

She twisted the handle and marched into the room, hyper aware of herself, her surroundings, and the thoughts of everyone in a three block radius. What was it Doctor Banner had said? Something about survival instincts? Adrenaline? It hurt to be so hyper-aware, and for a moment she felt like the world paused for her to absorb everything it had to say.

It was a crystal moment, a clarity of suspense, like Hal was throwing herself off a cliff. She saw James across the room, dressed in a simply elegant suit.

It didn't suit him at all.

She smiled.

Her heart stung, but the sensation was entirely hers. Something unwanted, yes, but hers nonetheless. She would keep it, as part of herself, even if she cherished the pain alone.

James turned to meet her, firmly controlled. Hal didn't give herself time to drown.

"There's a driver waiting outside," she said. "We should go now."

.O.O.O.

Hal lapsed into her favorite method of distraction the minute her ass touched the backseat of the limo.

"You combed your hair."

James' jaw ticked and he gave her long, sidelong look. "So did you."

Undeterred, Hal chattered on, hoping to goad him to the point where he wouldn't notice the inevitable tells that would betray her nerves. "Did you shave? Your stubble looks shorter."

He looked straight ahead. "Shut-up, Hal."

"Never."

"One of these days," he said, "you're going to start talking in your sleep."

"I already do," she pointed out. "I used to talk to you all the time."

It had been the wrong thing to say, and she knew it the moment the words left her mouth. She could tell by the sharp whir of his metal arm. It was noisier than his flesh one, and Hal found it made for one of the Soldier's best tells. He took a deep breath, flaring his nostrils. His thoughts danced around the core of his fears – the mental territory Hal was most careful to avoid. He hadn't changed his mind, not in any way that especially mattered, but he did regret not stopping to explain once the joined forces for this little mission. They had yet to address the elephant in the room. They'd played around it. Hinted at it. Took it as obvious. But he was beginning to think that he'd made a mistake. Neither of them had wound up where he thought they would.

"Hal-"

She rushed to cut him off. "It's fine. I get it. You left me alone in a seedy motel at the edge of the city without so much as a note. A girl can take a hint."

James' jaw snapped shut and the frustrated twitch jumped back to life.

Hal knew there was more to his decision, that he hadn't done it to be cruel, but she really needed him to shut up, and the best way to do that was to throw his mistakes back in his face. Brutal, but effective. Her hand wandered to her seatbelt, rubbing up and down along the thick stitching as she fought to ground herself. For once it was her own thoughts she was afraid would envelop her.

Doomstadt faded from the windows, the tight-packed city center breaking into smaller homes with more space between, then even smaller homes, and eventually farmland. The streets were empty. Hal didn't have to read Doom's mind to know what he wanted. He'd staged things so the foreigners would make a fashionably late entrance. Hal had sensed the folk in the surrounding blocks heading to the National Theater about the same time their clothes arrived. Granted, they made better time in their chaperoned limo, but they would still be the last ones to arrive. Probably the last to be seated. Except for Doom, of course.

The National Theater was Doom's most conspicuous contribution to public life in Latveria. Cut into the mountainside, the tremendous amphitheater had seats enough for the vast majority of the country's population. The stage was as large as a football field. Digital screens and a vast sound system ensured the entire audience could see every gesture and hear every word. The theater's acoustics were almost magical though, and Hal wasn't sure the night's singers would even need microphones.

As ever, curiosity nibbled away at her fear. Strange that the figure that should be her nemesis and his grand monument to dictatorship should help calm the anxieties she held for her alleged partner.

 **A/N: This chapter was supposed to be about three times this size, but this was a bitch to write because I don't know how to write feels very well. Practice makes perfect, and it isn't exactly my specialty. The promised Doom (and doom) will be in the next chapter. I promise. But you all have been waiting so very patiently and deserve an update.**

 **For those curious about ghostwriting: someday, when I publish under my own name, I will very likely share with ya'll. In the meantime, the first rule of Ghostwriting Club is that you cannot disclose what you wrote in Ghostwriting Club. Alas.**

 **Family update: recovery is taking longer than expected, and that has screwed up my schedule in a pretty bad way - to the point it's messing with my head a bit - but she IS slowly getting better.**

 **Your support means more than you realize. Even though this fic isn't as popular as _Sin Eater_ , I wanted to let all my readers/reviewers/friendly stalkers know how much I appreciate the time you take to read this fic. Thank you!**

 **Now I can sit back and wait for the shippers to start screaming.**

 **Replies to Anons:**

 **Inkwriter: Aw, thanks! Unfortunately I can't take public credit for any ghostwriting projects, but when I publish an original novel I will let you know. I LOVE Doom. I can't watch any of the _Fantastic 4_ movies because they never get his character right. But, yes, he is an egotistical little shit. And, hey, he rules a country, so he kinda has good reason to be. Thanks again, and I look forward to hearing from you again!**

 **B: Yay! Well, here's another chapter for you. Dolled up? Your wish is my command. Mwahaha.**


	14. A Night at the Opera

**Chapter 14: A Night at the Opera**

It was chilly for late spring, especially at the feet of Latveria's mountains, and Hal felt her skin prickle as she left the car. It felt nice. It would feel better with a jacket. The breeze sent chills down her naked back, and Hal felt her vulnerability in every rising goose bump. Strategists talked about showing your back to the enemy for a reason. It posed the ultimate risk, a beautiful invitation for a knife to nestle between your shoulder blades.

James did not like the dress. She could almost hear his teeth grinding, and his frustration came in jagged waves every time his eye strayed in her direction. If he thought her usual dresses were a problem, this must really wear on his patience. He didn't offer his arm as he came to stand beside her, and the awkward pair stared up at the Romanesque amphitheater with jaded disquiet. Constantly keeping on guard was exhausting, especially when nothing happened to warrant that caution.

Thus far, Doom had been nothing but a distantly polite host, or at least a conscientious one. He'd made no real threats. He had not tried to divide them. He hadn't even arranged for uncomfortable lodgings. He could easily have made an excuse to have them monitor his systems from the cells of a convenient dungeon. Hal was sure he had many of them.

But his games were unsettling, and Hal could not relax without knowing what Doom hoped to achieve through them. He did not strike her as the sort to waste his time on temporary distractions. He must want something. Everyone did. Hal's job, as ever, was to discover that something. She was a delicate instrument for an indelicate task; digging through sins and schemes for the secrets meant surrendering herself. For all their support, Hal didn't think her allies had ever understood that. She performed surgery naked. No one could see her, but she suffered from a far more compromising kind of vulnerability than her backless dress could ever aspire to. She stole secrets, and she bared her soul in the process. Fortunately, the world was blind.

Doom, for all his technology, was as blind as his subjects. He used distance to keep Hal in the dark, but he would be in the same theater that night, and Hal planned to make the most of the opportunity.

James did not hold out his arm for her to take. Hal understood he did not want to make her look weak or dependant, but she worried he would make the divide between them readily apparent to unfriendly eyes. They ascended the stone steps into the towering amphitheater side by side. Hal kept her head high. She could pull off the dress, and it wouldn't make her any less dangerous.

Doombots stood guard at the entrance, the stairs, and any potential point of ingress. Were they there to keep people from coming in or from going out? There were enough to give the entirety of Latveria's population a second thought about mobbing past them. Granted, nearly every citizen was in attendance, but Hal wondered what exactly Doom thought would happen during intermission. Did Latverians even believe in intermissions?

The theater seemed massive from the outside, but it seemed to grow as they entered, and Hal wondered how such a structure was even possible. It was like a roofless music hall, only it was a roofless music hall big enough to seat an entire country. Large as it was, the theater had no lobby. The outer walls simply shielded the open stage from the outside world. Within the theater, the same wall offered support for several implausibly large balconies. Organized in a semicircle facing the stage, long hallways curved around the outer shell, channeling the audience to their seats. Spiral staircases wound between floors, and although they were empty as Hal looked at them, she imagined she could hear the ringing of thousands of feet clattering over the metal. The seats in the orchestra level seemed to go on for a mile or more. They probably did.

Every seat was filled, and every eye turned to the two foreigners as they stepped through the main gates. James' gaze flashed up and to the side. Hal followed his eyes to find a live feed of the two of them broadcast on two enormous screens flanking the stage. The bird's eye view revealed a surprising distance between Hal and the Soldier, but the Soldier stood rigid, like someone had poked him in the ass with a broadsword.

Tiny fingers curled around Hal's palm, and a child's thoughts blasted into her mind. Hal glanced down at the little girl beside her and smiled. The little girl answered with her own gap-toothed enthusiasm and tugged on Hal's hand. Although her grip was gentle, the girl's thoughts screamed as loud as any child's. Children lacked adults' focus and composure. They questioned everything, marveled at random oddities, and considered their surroundings with vivid, unrestrained curiosity. And they did it all very, very loudly. It only took an instant to pluck the girl's role from her mind: Doom had assigned her to escort his _guests_ to their seats. Ushers just weren't a thing in Doom's kingdom. Everyone knew their place, and ensured everyone had a place ready. Dressed in a traditional dress, complete with stiff petticoats, the girl made for a precocious example of everything that was right with Latveria.

Hal cast a glance at James and cocked her heads. He grew even stiffer, clearly unwilling to follow, but Hal let the little girl lead on, and she soon felt his stormy presence drifting after her, tethered like a rain cloud on a leash. He'd get over it. She couldn't trust him with a lot of things, but she could always trust him to complete his mission. He'd ditch her eventually, but only somewhere safe, like New York, probably on his best friend's doormat again.

The girl led them along the narrow paths between seats, to the far left of the theater. A small, stone box stood there, with steps up to the handful of elite seats. Like any box, it was a seat for those who wished to be seen. Hal knew Doom wanted her and her compatriot on edge, but this was just overkill. The box loomed as they made their endless trek across the lower level, carrying the burden of Doomstadt's gaze as they journeyed to their seats. The noise, amplified by the theater, hovered in the indistinguishable range of nervous shifting and cautious whispers. Everyone knew they were supposed to be silent, but such a large gathering could never be entirely soundless. Hal could swear she heard her own footsteps echoing back to her through the haze of audible sound. But it was hard to tell. In her head, she could hear thousands of voices.

By the time they reached the box, Hal's head throbbed in time with their pace.

The girl left them at the stairs. She dropped Hal's hand with a giggle and sprinted towards her family, who accepted her with stiff smiles and clutching hugs. Pride and fear mingled in their thoughts, hidden under a smothering blanket of relief. It fit everything Hal had come to expect from Doom's people. But she had bigger fish to fry. Like getting up the gods forsaken stairs without letting a stranger's errant thoughts distract her.

She made it to the top. She even made it to her seat without letting her façade crack. If James sent her a sideways glance when she dropped into her seat a little too heavily, then he was just being himself.

No sooner had she settled than a fanfare exploded from the orchestra pit. Every Latverian in attendance sprang to their feet and turned to salute the box opposite the outsiders.' Hal leaned forward to squint as a panel slid away from the back of the seating area, and Doom strolled through. He gestured to his people, and they sat a long moment after Doom assumed his throne-like perch – the only seat in his box. Neither Hal nor the Soldier gave so much as a finger-wave. But Doom didn't really acknowledge them, either, so Hal assumed all was well. For the moment.

The conductor lifted his hands, and as they fell, the orchestra began. Hal knew the opera, so it didn't distract her in the least. Instead, she pushed her mind as far as she could, and then she pushed it an inch farther. And another inch. Several city blocks could sit comfortably in the theater, and a few more could squeeze in if they sucked in a bit. It was a huge stretch, but Hal had been practicing during her missions with Hawkeye and the Widow. During her long, dull days in Latveria, she'd practiced more. It might not work, but that was no reason not to try. The music helped, in its way. It took her half a step outside of herself, and that only made her job easier. The glowering man with the whirring metal arm beside her was another matter. She sat back and tried to enjoy the music without minding the Soldier's stony silence. She needed to ground herself, to focus. There was work to be done.

.O.O.O.

Bucky did not like the music. He'd discovered many things he didn't like since he began reclaiming his identity, but this was different. It wasn't because the music was too new. It wasn't that it was too loud. It wasn't that he couldn't empathize with the themes. The words were Italian, and he could only snatch a handful of lyrics at a time, but the plot was terribly clear as the characters made their swaggering, wincing, singing way across the stage.

The fool, the king, and the maiden. Revenge. Hate. Loss.

He understood it all very well. And he couldn't stand to just sit and listen as the tale drew closer and closer to its ultimate doom. The long, cruel songs curled around his gut and squeezed.

The symbolism was obvious and, doubtless, intentional. Doom chose a tragedy on purpose, and he hadn't chosen this one at random. It was a warning. But which guest was meant to receive it? Doom would never picture himself as less than a king, but who was the innocent? Who was the fool?

He glanced at Hal. She sat with her chin propped in her hand, her elbow braced against the banister, perfectly casual. She'd lost herself to the music. He could see it in her glassy expression as she stared toward the stage. He wondered if she bothered to follow the plot. Maybe he could listen to the songs more easily if they weren't part of the story. A breeze from the mountains curled through the amphitheater, tugging the open back of Hal's dress to reveal half an inch more skin. The mountain's cool breath conjured goosebumps over her exposed flesh, and James turned away, frustrated.

That dress. It was ridiculous. It didn't suit the season. It didn't suit their precarious position. He'd nearly put his hand on Hal's back when she exited the limo, a reflex of days gone by. He caught the amphitheater's lights in the metal of the reaching digits, however, and he'd caught himself just in time. He didn't want to see her jump when his cool hand touched her bare skin. Sitting in the aloof box, trapped in their solitude, he squeezed the offending hand into a fist. Hal was obviously cold enough without his help. He bore the music in silence, his hands resting as fists on his lap. Hal shuddered from time to time as the wind rustled the drapery in their box, and he cursed Doom for not giving _either_ of them a coat. Obviously, the dictator wanted them uncomfortable, and he wanted to display their vulnerability to his people. Bucky wasn't sure what bothered him more, Hal's goosebumps or the implication of the Dictator's choices. Why present them to his people? Why play power games _now_? They lacked crucial information, and Bucky hated being a step behind anyone.

Eventually, the music stopped, the performers waltzed off stage, and the people of Latveria shifted and murmured as intermission granted them leave to speak. Hal didn't move from her position, and Bucky once again considered touching her to jolt her out of her stupor, but a robotic voice stopped him.

"Doom summons the Soldier."

Bucky snapped around to stare at the Doombot that had appeared behind him. A secret panel like the one Doom used to enter stood open at the back of the box, and the Doombot clearly meant the Soldier to follow into the secret passage. Bucky stiffened. Splitting up was a bad idea. Leaving Hal sitting alone in the box, open to attack, didn't sit well with him. He could refuse. He could be polite if he had to. Make an excuse. Or fight.

"Go on."

Hal's soft hand settled over his metal wrist, and he stared at it for a moment, torn between shock and frustration. She spoke to soothe his worries, and she touched him to restrain his anger. She wasn't as distracted as he assumed. It didn't mean she was right.

He prepared to voice his concerns, but there was no need.

"Doom isn't going to drop a nuke on this box when we're surrounded by his people," she said. "He's playing with us, but he's made it clear tonight will be nothing more than games. When he strikes, it won't be within spitting distance of the civilian population."

Another moment of hesitation, and she gently patted the back of his hand before withdrawing entirely. "I'll be here when you get back."

She wasn't giving him a choice. Bucky wondered when, exactly, she'd taken charge of this operation. He stood anyway and followed the Doombot, resisting the urge to glance back at Hal as he went. She was right. Doom wouldn't risk his people, not like this. It was one of his few worthwhile characteristics. The narrow hall behind the secret door led around the outside of the theater, and the walk took longer than Bucky was comfortable with. Anything could happen while he was inside. He didn't have a bead on Hal, and he would never trust Doom with her safety. A small voice in the back of his mind whispered that maybe he should trust _her_ , but he quashed it.

The Doombot stopped and the door to Doom's box slid open. Bucky slipped between the two drones on duty, neither of which bothered to move. Doom also saw no need to provide a chair, so the Soldier found himself standing at attention next to the sitting monarch. Doom had a way of sprawling without losing his air of formal authority. He nodded slightly to acknowledge his guest but allowed Bucky to glare at him stoically for several long seconds before he bothered to speak.

"You are not as polite as your companion."

"No."

Doom didn't take the bait, but nodded across the open theater in Hal's direction. "You have a stronger fist, but someday, she may be able to end wars before they even begin. Tell me, which is the greater advantage?"

The Soldier shrugged. "Depends on the war."

"Perhaps." Spread his fingers across the armrests of his throne and leaned back until the back of his hood pressed against the upholstery. "How have you enjoyed the opera?"

Bucky's eyes flicked to the stage. "Not really my thing."

"That isn't an answer."

Since he was a captive audience, he couldn't really argue. He wondered if insulting the performance would get a dismissal or an attack. For Hal's sake, he couldn't take the risk. "It's a good show, but like I said, opera isn't really my thing."

"It takes a refined ear to enjoy, I will grant you," Doom said. "But I'm more interested in your opinion of the plot. Do you know the story?"

The Soldier shrugged. "It's about betrayal."

"I've always believed it to be about loyalty," Doom replied. "It's no easy thing to serve a monarch, or to stay true to your vows. The story's final villain, after all, isn't the king, is it? But I've always wondered how the fool's daughter discovered she had more loyalty than her father. It must not be a genetic trait.

"Many things motivate loyalty," Doom continued, confident in the Soldier's attention. "Wealth. Inspiration. Training. But an individual must desire whatever motivation you offer, or it is worthless. Even threats are driven by desire for whatever is at risk: a life, a lover, a rank. It does not matter. In the end, a man's desires destroy or elevate him, depending on what he is willing to do to win them."

The Soldier flexed his left hand. He used the whirring mechanisms to intimidate subjects during interrogations, and he unconsciously began the motion as a quiet threat for Doom. He wasn't a fool, not like the character in the opera. He could see where Doom's mask pointed, where Hal sat patiently in her seat for his return. An offer or a threat. Doom presented him with both.

A chime echoed through the theater, and Doom waved his hand in dismissal. "The drama is about to begin. You may resume your place. I wouldn't want you to miss the final act."

 **A/N: LAAAATE. Holy shit, I'm LATE! Thank you all for your AWESOME response to the last chapter. I was fighting with this one off and on for a while, worried about Doom's character, worried about climbing back inside Bucky's head. Blah blah blah. BUT HERE IT IS! AND THE NEXT CHAPTER IS GONNA _MOVE_ , HONEY.**

 **Personal update: Thanks for all the well wishes for my mom! She had her second surgery, and it went much better. She was just cleared to drive this past week. Meanwhile, I've been up to my eyeballs with extra work preparing to run the writing/lit room at a local convention. Fun, but stressful. It's next weekend, so my next update will either be rather early or a bit late.**

 **Fic update: Both this and my new fic will see regular updates. Apart from major events, like next weekend, they should be updated once a week. If I need a break, I might drop to every other week, but I'll do my best to give you warning. If you like vampires, fey, and all things creepy, do me a solid and check out _The Deer's Fate_. It's massively different from this fic, but I'm trying to expand my writing style/subject material. It's rated M, so reader beware. **

**THANKS AGAIN! YOU ROCK MY SUSHI SOCKS!**

 **Replies to Anons:**

 **Guest: Thank you very much! She is definitely doing better, and I hope you enjoy this chapter after the EXCESSIVE wait.**

 **Harper: Thanks! You understand my pain! I hate any fastening in the back because I have t-rex arms and always need help. It's awkward. I seriously appreciate your support, and I hope you enjoy the continued angst!**

 **Guest (2): Thank you for the compliment! I'm always happy when people binge-read! I love reading other fics, and I'm thrilled to put work back into the community. I hope you continue to enjoy the story!**

 **Hannah: Thank you, dear shipper! Right now they're in the read-between-the-lines stage, so I hope you enjoy any teasing hints I've dropped. Thanks again!**

 **Jas: Thanks so much! I'm so happy you've enjoyed the read, and I'm so sorry for the delay. Hope you like the rest of the adventure!**


	15. Fight and Flight

**Chapter 15: Fight and Flight**

Hal barely noticed when James took his place beside her. He sank immediately into a deep, brooding silence, so it wasn't like she was ignoring him. Although, to be fair, she was ignoring everything. The theater full of people had long faded to annoying background noise. Her laser focus was fixed on the box across the way. Her head hurt. Even her ears ached from the strain. Once or twice, she forgot to breathe, and she snapped back to herself with quick gasps that she hoped passed as appreciation for the music. When had the music started again? It didn't matter. Nothing else mattered. Not the cold. Not the pounding behind her eyes. Not the ringing in her ears. Not even the man beside her. If it weren't for the universal shift in consciousness as the opera ended, she would never have realized. But the audience's shattered attention spiked across her mind like slivers of glass, and the pain jerked her to the present.

Jerked outside the gummy time of thoughts and memories, Hal had to hesitate a moment before she remembered how to clap. It was the immediacy of the motion that threw her off, and for the first time since he returned to the box, James glanced her way. Hal focused on the stage. The performers bowed, the audience continued to clap. The performers bowed again, and the audience went on. No one dared to stop clapping before Doom. Except, of course, James, who never started clapping in the first place. Hal used the time to center herself, focusing on her stinging palms as the cast gathered on stage for a third curtain call. She felt sluggish and antsy at the same time. Her mind hadn't remembered how it fit back together just yet. It has spent too long contorting into the shape of another man's head.

Doom stopped applauding after the fourth curtain call, and his subjects' applause gradually petered out as their monarch rose. He exited with as much aplomb as he entered with. That brief distraction gave Hal the time to remember how her legs worked and how to move them before a Doombot appeared to usher them from the theater. She walked a pace ahead of the Soldier. He slunk along on full alert, less confident and more wary than he'd been when they arrived. His caution didn't surprise Hal, but his shaken confidence did. He was keeping his conversation with Doom to himself, away from the surface of his thoughts, and while she wouldn't do him the disservice of digging for them, she wished she'd paid more attention to that little drama. The night has been a deceptively calm event with a league of moving pieces flying below the surface. Like an ocean during the turn of the tide. Stage productions always had those moving pieces, but for one of the few times in history, the action in the audience might have surpassed the staged plots.

They made it to the car after a century that passed in a blink. Hal sat down, feeling as if she'd walked forever, but she could hardly remember the journey. James slid in beside her, a frown dragging his lips so low she wondered if they'd slip off his chin. The theaters lights slid from the doors to the back window and shrank in the dark as the car entered the long stretch between the theater and the outskirts of Doomstadt.

As her thoughts stabilized, her lethargy slid away. As that sensation left, adrenaline flowed in white hot pulses from her core. Her mission wasn't over. She had what she needed, but now she had to act on that information. Now. Before anyone realized she'd changed the game.

She had no time to waste.

Springing forward, she latched onto the driver's neck with both hands. The car swerved into a hedge a mile away from the theater. Fortunately, they hadn't been going more than thirty miles an hour, but the impact sill jarred Hal against the driver's headrest. If she survived the new few hours, she'd have a truly lovely bruise across her chest. The driver's short nails were also making some impressive scratches in the backs of her hands. James, knocked sideways by the collision, glared at the scene.

"Hal!"

"I'm busy," Hal grunted. Putting someone to sleep was easier in the movies. Thankfully, she'd spent a good deal of time lately with a bunch of soldiers and assassins. She hoped they wouldn't mind she borrowed a few things.

James laid his metal hand on her shoulder. He squeezed in warning. "Let him go."

"Hold on a sec," she said between clenched teeth. She didn't want to kill the guy, so she was busy trying to cut off the blood flow to his brain without choking him. Natasha thought about doing this every time she looked at Stark. If she just squeezed the sides, she wouldn't do any permanent damage. Or, at least, she hoped she wouldn't.

James yanked her back, and Hal squawked.

"Let me." The Soldier clapped his hand around the driver's neck, and in another few moments, the driver had slumped in a boneless heap against the wheel. Hal flexed her fingers and huffed. She hadn't needed his help.

Satisfied with his work, the Soldier turned and pinned her with an ice cold battle glare. "Wanna tell me what's going on?"

Hal pushed him aside and patted down the unconscious driver as she tried to explain. Action was more important than words at the moment, and she struggled to keep her sentences together. "Didn't think I was seriously like – Oh my! Such a lovely show! I'm totally not worried about the fucking dictator and killer robots everywhere, and you know our house is bugged as hell, so it's not like I could just wait and – Ah ha!" Victorious, she grabbed the driver's cell from his pocket and hopped out of the car. She spun in a circle, lifting the device as she hunted for a signal. It only took a few turns to find one.

As she began furiously texting, James slipped out of the other door and rested his arms on the roof of the car, watching. "How about an explanation now, doll?"

"Not yet," Hal snapped. "Still busy. Be patient."

She sent ten texts off to different numbers in rapid succession, and although James waited for her to finish, he trapped her gaze the second she lowered the phone.

"You're confused," Hal said.

"Yeah."

"I'll explain on the way. Can you help me move him?" she asked, gesturing to the driver.

"Sure. Where?"

"Just out."

Wordlessly, the Soldier opened the driver's door, unclipped his seat belt, and hauled the limp body into the grass. As he worked, Hal went around to the front passenger side and buckled herself in. James took the wordless cue to assume the wheel and ducked into the car beside her. As he put the car in reverse, he asked, "Where we headed?"

"Back towards the theater. There's a side road half a mile after the turn off, and if we take that it'll lead to a pass."

James shook his head, but he followed her instructions. "You think Doom is just going to let us leave?"

"Doom was never gonna let us leave," she said.

"I guess I should've expected you to put that together." James gunned the motor, and soon they were flying back the way they came. "Pick my thoughts after intermission?"

"Picked Doom's."

The car jerked to the side, and James hastily straightened their course before casting a disbelieving look her way. "You can't reach that far."

"I couldn't." Hal shrugged. "Now I can." She took her turn to give him a look of her own. "Did you think I was just daydreaming all those days in the guesthouse? I've been… stretching. And tonight all the noise just sort of carried me across the space. And with the music… I reached him."

James was quiet for a few moments as he digested this new information. The scenery blurred past, and soon he found the side road. "You think the Doombots are just going to let us pass?"

"No," she said. "But we need to get across the border, and there isn't time for a better plan."

"Why not, Hal? What's changed?" By his tone, he was getting tired of playing twenty questions. Hal didn't have time for a full debriefing, though. He'd have to deal with it.

Still, there was one thing she could tell him. "Ultron's gone."

"What? How did –"

"The Avengers had it out with him in the Tower. He came back for round two with a drone army."

The steering wheel creaked as James tightened his grip. "When?"

"Yesterday. If Doom planned to let us leave, he would've already made arrangements to ship our foreign asses out of Disneyland. Since he brought us to the opera instead…"

Silence reigned for a full two heartbeats before James admitted, "He said as much. I thought it was an offer, at least in part. Should've known Doom would never make an offer I might back out of."

"Yes," Hal said, "you should have."

The Soldier peered at the sky through the windshield, looking for glimmers of movement. "I thought we'd see more resistance by now. Doom has to know something's wrong."

Hal snuggled into her seat and folded her arms. "Oh, he does, and he has bigger problems right now."

The Soldier quirked a brow.

"It didn't take me an entire opera to see what Doom knew about Ultron. Took less to get his plans for us. I got some very juicy bits while I was inside his armor-plated can." The Soldier didn't ask any of the questions Hal hoped to hear, so she grudgingly spilled her beans. "I knew the driver had a cell phone, because he's one of only a dozen or so citizens Doom trusts to carry one. I might have sent some border crossing codes, spycam passwords, and other national secrets to folks who may be interested. Like the World Council. And the Avengers. I'm hoping they get the memo and try to break in while we're breaking out. It would make life a lot easier. Anyway, Doom keeps all his minions' cells bugged, so he knows where he's vulnerable. He'll be too busy with damage control to do much about us. He's strengthening the border crossings I compromised right now and bracing for a potential attack. I don't anticipate much resistance apart from the regular border guards. Think we can run them over with the car?"

"Doombots? No." James glared at the mountains as they loomed ahead. "We'll do better on foot. Try to sneak past."

Hal rubbed her arms and sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that. Dumb dress."

* * *

The pass didn't have the deep snow sparkling on the peaks, but a few inches still stuck to the ground. It wasn't much, but it was enough to chill Hal's bare feet to the bone. Heels were not appropriate for mountain trekking, and she had to ditch them when the right heel snapped off five yards from the car. She shuddered with every step, regretting her plan to come to Latveria. Regretting not sticking it to Doom and wearing boots to the opera. Regretted not taking the driver's suit jacket. As she clutched her arms around her chest, tottering after the Soldier, she knew that she _didn't_ regret allowing the ghost from her past to come on this adventure with her.

The snow put her in a contemplative mood. It might be a subconscious diversionary tactic to prevent her from feeling the frostbite slowly consuming her toes, but for once her mental struggles were preferable to her physical condition. As the initial adrenaline burst from her attack on the driver ended, the raging headache from the theater came back. Paired with her feet, her agony was blinding. It was all she could do to trudge after the Soldier, and focusing on him – on _them_ – helped. They'd regrown their link, and although they may never be as close as they were before, Hal felt like a critical part of her identity had found a place in her new life. She didn't feel adrift so much now, even though she was far from anything she could consider home. But she wouldn't be sharing any of that with James. It would only drive him away.

And she didn't _want_ him to go away.

She bowed her head, starting at the big footprints the Soldier left for her to follow. It wasn't deep snow. He didn't have to do that. But he took point and shortened his stride for her benefit. She didn't have to read his mind to know that. Other things, things she burned to know, she didn't dare ask. Finding the answers in his thoughts felt wrong. And she was afraid what she might find. Chewing on her lip, she pondered her cowardice. She wondered at the comfort she felt while running from a mad dictator, barefoot in the snow with a super soldier. She wanted to say it didn't make any kind of sense, but the truth was it really, unfortunately, did.

She wanted to talk to Sam.

Groaning, she shook her head. She was terrified of all the wrong things, and if she didn't start paying attention to the things that mattered, her head would make a lovely pike ornament outside Doom's castle.

And, as if summoned by her inattention, a deep rumble shook the ground. A metallic shriek filled the air, and a trapdoor under the snow popped open to reveal a rising Doombot. The metal soldier came between Hal and James, but it came alone. Hal glanced around in the precious few seconds before the Doombot cleared the ground, but she saw no more open hatches. Whether they were motion triggered, or they just had bad luck to step on a scout preparing for its rounds, Hal neither knew nor cared. She was just happy that – so far – they'd gotten lucky.

The Doombot raised a fist, which probably held a small rocket, and pointed it in Hal's face. _"Halt."_

"Already did," she said.

The Doombot froze as it transmitted and received orders. As it downloaded the new information, a shadow crept up behind it. Hal stood waiting, arms crossed. The Doombot's eyes flickered. _"By the order of Lo-"_

A metal fist closed around the Doombot's neck and ripped away the end of its sentence. The Winter Soldier tossed its head away as the body tottered and fell forward into the snow. Hal jumped clear, stumbling on frozen feet, and wished she had boots on so she could give the empty armor a good kick while it was down.

"We need to move," the Soldier said. "Doom knows where we are now."

No sooner had the words left his chapped lips than the ground began trembling underfoot, and several dozen hatches swung open. The Soldier took stock of the situation with a half second glance and suddenly Hal was hanging on to the back of his suit jacket as he sprinted away – with Hal bumping along on his shoulder. Her breath flew out in a _whoosh_ , and for a second the Soldier ran with nothing but the crunch of snow and puff of rising machines to distract him. The second Hal could breathe again, she changed that.

"What." Bounce. "The." Bounce. "Fuck!" Her words popped out like machine gun fire, disconnected bullets leaving her mouth in rapid succession.

The Soldier didn't answer as he ran. Hal looked up to see a small host of Doombots slowly turn and lock onto their targets. "Run faster!"

The host raised their fists, little lights ignited near their elbows, and Hal shouted. "James, get down, get down!"

The Doombots fired. And the ground dropped out from beneath Hal. Really, James' shoulder dropped, but only because he'd followed her advice. Hal tumbled, and gravity kept her spinning down through the snow longer than she'd expected to fall. She came to a sudden stop at the bottom of a slope she hadn't seen approaching just as the Doombots' fiery missiles exploded at the top of the hill. The pretty lights made a brilliant echo on the backs of her eyes, and she rubbed her face furiously, trying to restore her night vision. As she blinked away the snow she'd accidently smeared across her face, she saw James up and running towards her. The trail he left in the slope showed where he'd landed several yards away, but he was fast, even in the snow. Hal didn't have time to stand up before he'd grabbed her arm and wrenched her to her feet. As the Doombots' silhouettes crested the ridge, he shoved her behind him, holding his metal arm across them both as a shield.

The Doombots lifted their arms to fire again.

They never got the chance.

A sonic boom shattered the mountain quiet, and a blast of blue white energy struck the center of the Doombots' formation. As their parts scattered across the hillside, the survivors reassessed their situation and began firing at the sky as Ironman rocketed overhead. Doom's minions turned to face their new enemy, and a quinjet unshielded overhead. It drifted down slowly to land in the field behind Doom's fleeing guests. A few Doombots noticed their prey's new escape route and peppered the snow around James and Hal with lasers. The snow hissed and swirled up in clouds of steam which reflected the red glow of the continuing blasts. Trying to cover Hal and run at the same time allowed the Soldier to make very little progress. The Doombots were gaining.

The quinjet dropped its ramp, and Hal saw a bird man that could only be the Falcon swoop out. The figure dropped between the fleeing pair and their attackers. Metal wings that rose to shield them and confirmed her suspicions.

"Go! Go!"

Hal didn't need to be told twice. She ran at a dead sprint across the snow. The red steam rose and the noise of battle grew. Hal kept her sights locked on the ramp. Her numb feet caught on the grooves of the metal, and her world tilted, but a strong arm snapped around her waist to pull her the rest of the way inside. The Falcon followed, only folding his wings as the ramp closed and the jet lifted off. James deposited Hal in one of the passenger chairs and helped her trembling hands manage the buckles before going to his own seat. The engines rumbled as the quinjet accelerated. Sam, standing just inside the hatch, grabbed one of the support loops dangling from the cargo area. The moment the jet leveled out, he ducked to rummage through one of the jet's built in lockers.

"Everybody in one piece?"

Hal craned to the side in order to see who was sitting in the pilot's chair. She caught a glimpse of red hair and smiled. "Thanks for the lift, Agent Romanoff."

"I thought we told you kids to give us a call when you were done at your friend's house," Romanoff said.

"I did!" Hal paused. "Sorta."

 **A/N: A weird breaking point, but you've all waited entirely too long for an update, so I wanted to give you a Christmas present.**

 **I said I wanted to update regularly, and my life basically went, "Lol! Fuck you." It hasn't been a good couple months. The biggest issue was the loss of a growing niece/nephew. 2016 wasn't an easy year for any of us, but it's using its remaining strength to beat the joy and creativity out of my life. I won't let it, of course, but, yeah. Not fun.**

 **Thank you for asking about my mom. She is doing well. So well that my family has become so toxic I'm literally leaving for weeks at a time to stay with friends in other cities rather than being near them. I'm glad she's doing better, but I wish this could have brought us closer.**

 **This year was so awful it's motivating me to make major changes, and while I don't want to jinx myself again with regular deadlines, I'm not going to leave you all hanging for two months next time.**

 **I am emotionally exhausted and not up to replying to reviews just now, but I will get back on my feet and start regular replies with the next update. Until then, please know that you guys are amazing. You motivate me to kick ass, take names, and write. It may not seem like much, but you guys seriously make a huge difference in my life, and I wanted to take the time to properly thank you. So, thank you all, and I hope you enjoy whatever holiday you and yours celebrate during this frigid season. Be well, and I hope to see you all again on the other side of the new year!**


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